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WOMAN 


UNIFORM    WITH    THIS   VOLUME, 

And  by  the  same  Author, 

LOVE      (L 'AMOUR). 

One  Vol.,  I  zmo.     Muslin.     Price  $1  oo. 


WOMAN 


From  the  French  of 
M.    J.    MICHELET, 

OF  THE  FACULTY  OF  LETTERS,  CHIEF  IN  THE  HISTORICAL  SECTION  OF  THE  NATIONAL 

ARCHIVES,  AUTHOR  OF  "A  HISTORY  OF  FRANCE,"  "HISTORY  OF  THE  ROMAN 

BEPUBLIC,"  "MEMOIRS  OF  LUTHER,"  "INTRODUCTION  TO  UNIVERSAL 

HISTORY,"  "L'INSECTE,"  "L'OISEAU,"  "L' AMOUR," 

ETC.,  ETC.,  ETC. 


Translated  from  the  last  Paris  Edition,  by 

J.     W.    PALMER,    M.D. 

f  "  3Tfje  Ntfca  anfc  tfje  ©ID,"  "  JSp  ant  IDoSnn  lf)e 


NEW   YORK: 

RUDD    &    CARLETON,     130    GRAND    STREET, 

PARIS  I    L.    HACHETTE    ET    C  ie. 

M  DCCC  LX. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1860,  by 
RUDD  &  CAELETON, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 
District  of  New  York. 


E.  CEAIGHBAD, 
Stereotyper  and  Electrotyper, 

Carton  SutttJi'ucj, 

81,  83,  find  So  Centre  Street. 


3  OS,  (f 


P 


TRANSLATOR'S    PREFACE, 

IN  THE  AUTHOR'S  OWN  WOKDS. 


"  THIS  book  omits  two  subjects,  the  introduction  of  which 
in  Ij  Amour  has  been  so  much  censured — adultery  and  pros- 
titution. I  concluded  to  leave  their  discussion  to  the  litera- 
ture of  the  day — which  is  inexhaustible  on  both  those 
themes.  I  have  demonstrated  my  problems  by  straight 
lines,  and  left  to  other  writers  the  complicated  illustration 
by  curves.  In  their  books  they  elaborately  pursue  the  by- 
paths of  love,  but  never  once  strike  out  on  its  grand  and 
fertile  highway — that  impregnation  which  in  more  elevated 
passions  endures  even  unto  death.  Our  clever  novelists 
are  in  the  identical  fog  that  in  former  times  enveloped  the 
casuists,  who  were,  moreover,  great  analysers.  Escobar  and 
Busenbaum,  who  met  with  the  same  success  as  Balzac — 
fifty  editions  each,  of  their  works — forgot  only  one  thing 
in  their  subtile  researches;  but  that  was  the  very  founda- 
tion of  their  doctrine.  So  the  writers  of  to-day  lose  sight 
of  marriage,  and  lay  down  rules  for  libertinism. 


vi  Preface. 

"  This  book  differs  no  less  from  the  serious  romances  of 
our  great  Utopians — Saint-Simon,  Fourier,  and  the  rest. 
They  invoke  nature,  but  a  very  low  order  of  it,  in  sympa- 
thy with  the  degradation  of  the  times;  and  at  once  they 
put  their  trust  in  passional  attraction,  in  our  very  inclina- 
tion towards  that  debased  nature.  In  this  age  of  stupen- 
dous effort,  of  heroic  creation,  they  have  tried  to  suppress 
effort ;  but  with  such  a  being  as  man,  an  energetic  creator, 
an  artist,  effort  is  part  of  himself,  and  he  is  all  the  better 
for  it.  The  popular  moral  instinct  perceives  this,  and  that 
is  why  those  great  thinkers  have  not  succeeded  in  founding 
a  school.  Art,  labor,  and  effort  rule  us  all,  and  what  we 
call  nature  in  ourselves  is,  most  frequently,  of  our  own 
making,  for  we  create  ourselves  day  by  day.  I  felt  the 
truth  of  this  while  pursuing  my  anatomical  studies  last  year, 
especially  on  the  brain.  The  brain  is  manifestly  the  organ 
of  work,  the  incarnation  of  our  daily  life.  Hence  its  intense 
expression,  and,  if  I  may  so  say,  its  eloquence,  in  superior 
individuals ;  I  do  not  hesitate  to  call  it  the  most  perfect 
flower,  the  most  touching  beauty  in  nature — affecting  in 
the  child,  and  often  sublime  in  the  man.  Let  them  call 
this  Heal  ism ;  I  am  quite  indifferent.  There  are  two  sorts  of 
realism :  the  one  vulgar  and  vacant — the  other,  through 
the  Real,  attaining  the  Idea,  which  is  its  essence  and  its 
highest  truth,  consequently  its  inherent  nobility.  If  pru- 
dery is  "shocked"  at  rny  poetry  of  truth,  the  only  pure 
poetry,  it  is  of  no  consequence  to  me;  when  in  U  Amour  I 
broke  down  the  stupid  barrier  which  separates  literature 
from  the  enlightenment  of  science,  I  did  not  ask  the  advice 


Preface.  vii 

of  those  shame-faces,  who  would  be  chaster  than  Nature, 
and  purer  than  God. 

"Woman  needs  a  faith,  and  expects  it  from  man,  in  or- 
der to  bring  up  her  child ;  for  there  can  be  no  education 
without  faith.  The  day  has  come  when  faith  may  be  laid 
down  in  a  formula.  Eousseau  could  not  do  it ;  his  age  was 
not  ripe  for  it.  Conscience  is  the  test  of  truth ;  but  it  must 
have  two  controlling  influences — history,  which  is  the  con- 
science of  the  human  race,  and  natural  history,  which  is  the 
instinctive  conscience  of  nature.  Now  formerly  neither  of 
these  two  existed;  they  have  been  born  within  the  last  cen- 
tury (1760-1860). 

"  When  Conscience,  History,  and  Natural  History  accord 
— Believe  1" 


CONTENTS  . 


PAG* 

TRANSLATOR'S  PREFACE, v 


I. — Why  People  do  not  Many,          .......      12 

II. — The  Female  Operative,        . .23 

IIL— The  Woman  of  Letters, 31 

IV. — No  Life  for  "Woman  without  Man,       .        .        .        .        .        .42 


$art  Jirsi. 

EDUCATION. 

I.— Sun,  Air,  and  Light, 53 

IL — The  first  Exchange  of  Glances,  and  the  Beginnings  of  Faith,  .  57 
III.— Play.— The  child  Teaching  its  Mother,  .  .  .  .  .61 
IV.— The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child, 6? 


x  Contents. 

PAGB 

V.— Love  at  Five  Years.— The  Doll, 72 

VI. — Woman  a  Religion, 76 

VII. — Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers,          ....  .85 

VIII. — The  Little  Household. — The  Little  Garden,      ....  93 

IX. — The  Maternities  of  Fourteen. — The  Metamorphosis,          .        .  5)8 

X.— History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith, 103 

XI. — Pallas. — Reason,      .         .         .         . 113 

XII.— Andrea  del  Sarto's  "  Charity," 117 

Till.— The  Revelation  of  Heroism, 123 


WOMAN  IN    THE  FAMILY. 

I. — The  Woman  who  will  Love  most. — Of  a  Different  Race,  .  13i 

II. — The  Woman  who  will  Love  most— Of  the  Same  Race,     .        .     138 

III.— The  Man  who  will  Love  best, 146 

IV.— The  Proof, 152 

V. — How  She  gives  her  Heart  away, 158 

VI.— Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  thy  Mother,    .        .        .        .165 

VII.— The  Young  Wife.— Her  Solitary  Thoughts,       .        .        .        .173 

VIII.— She  would  be  his  Partner  and  his  Client,          .        .        .        .180 

IX. — Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith, 186 

X. — The  great  Legend  of  Africa. — Woman  the  Goddess  of  Good- 
ness.   192 

XI.— How  Woman  Excels  Man, 200 

XII— The  Humiliations  of  Love.— Confession, 208 

XIII. — The  Communion  of  Love, 215 

XIV.— Tho  Offices  of  Nature,  ,     222 


Contents.  *     xi 


WOMAN  IN  SOCIETY. 

PAGE 

I.  —  "Woman  an  Angel  of  Peace  and  Civilization,       ....     230 
II.  —  Last  Love.  —  Women's  Friendships,     ......     234 

III.  —  "Woman  Protecting  Woman.  —  Caroline  Chisholm,       .        .        .241 

IV.  —  Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women,  .....     247 
Y.  —  The  Healing  Art  in  Woman,       .....        .        .254 

YL  —  The  Simples,      ..........     262 

YIL—  Children—  -Light—  the  Future,    .        .        .        .        .        .        .268 

NOTES,      ............     279 


INTRODUCTION. 


L 

WHY  PEOPLE  DO  NOT  MARRY. 

WE  all  perceive  the  capital  fact  of  &ur  time.  From  a  sin- 
gular combination  of  circumstances — social,  religious,  and 
economical — Man  lives  apart  from  Woman.  And  this  is  be- 
coming more  and  more  common.  They  are  not  merely  in  dif- 
ferent and  parallel  paths ;  they  are  as  two  travellers,  starting 
from  the  same  point,  one  at  full  speed,  the  other  at  a  sluggish 
pace,  but  following  divergent  routes. 

Man,  however  weak  he  may  be  morally,  is  nevertheless  on 
a  train  of  ideas,  inventions,  and  discoveries,  so  rapid  that 
sparks  dart  from  the  burning  rail. 

Woman,  hopelessly  left  behind,  remains  in  the  rut  of  a  past 
of  which  she  herself  knows  but  little.  She  is  distanced,  to  our 
sorrow,  but  either  will  not  or  cannot  go  faster. 

The  worst  of  it  is  that  they  do  not  seem  to  desire  to  come 
together.  They  seem  to  have  nothing  to  say  to  each  other — 
a  cold  hearth,  a  silent  table,  a  frozen  couch. 

"  One  is  not  bound,"  they  say,  "  to  put  himself  out  in  his 
own  family."  But  they  do  no  better  in  society,  where  polite- 


14  Why  People  do  not  Marry. 

ness  commands  it.  Every  one  knows  how  a  parlor  divides 
itself  in  the  evening  into  two  parlors,  one  of  men,  and  one  of 
women.  It  has  not  been  much  noticed,  but  it  may  be  tested, 
that  in  a  friendly  reunion  of  a  dozen  persons,  if  the  hostess 
insists  with  a  sort  of  gentle  violence  that  the  two  circles 
mingle  together  and  the  men  converse  with  the  women,  silence 
succeeds ;  there  is  no  more  conversation. 

We  must  state  the  thing  precisely  as  it  is :  they  have  no 
longer  any  ideas  in  common,  any  language  in  common,  and 
even  as  to  what  might  interest  both  parties  they  do  not  know 
how  to  speak,  they  have  too  completely  lost  sight  of  each 
other.  Soon,  if  we  do  not  take  care,  in  spite  ^of  casual  meet- 
ings, there  will  no  longer  be  two  sexes  but  two  peoples. 


It  is  not  surprising  that  the  book  which  combated  these 
tendencies — a  little  book  of  the  heart,  without  literary  preten- 
sion, has  been  on  all  sides  sharply  criticised.  "  IS  Amour," 
threw  itself  naively  into  the  breach,  invoked  good-nature,  and 
said  "  Love  again." 

At  these  words  sharp  cries  were  uttered  ;  for  the  diseased 
core  was  touched.  "  No,  we  will  not  love,  we  will  not  be 
happy.  There  is  something  under  all  this.  Under  that  reli- 
gious form  which  deifies  woman,  he  attempts  to  strengthen,  to 
emancipate  her  mind.  He  seeks  for  a  servile  idol,  to  bind 
on  his  altar." 

Thus,  at  the  word  Union,  broke  forth  all  the  evils  of  the 
time — division,  dissolution,  the  sad  solitary  tastes,  the  desire 
for  savage  life,  which  brood  in  the  depths  of  men's  minds. 

The  women  read  and  wept.  Their  directors  (priests  or 
philosophers,  no  matter  which)  dictated  language  to  them. 
Scarcely  did  they  dare  feebly  to  defend  their  defender.  But 
they  did  better,  they  read  over  again,  they  devoured,  the  for- 
bidden book,  they  kept  it  for  their  leisure  hours,  and  hid  it 
under  their  pillows. 


Why  People  do  not  Marry.  15 

It  is  well  consoled  by  that,  this  much-abused  book,  both  for 
the  insults  of  enemies  and  the  censures  of  friends.  Neither 
the  men  of  the  Middle  Ages  nor  those  of  Free  Love  found 
their  account  in  it.  IS  Amour  sought  to  lead  woman  back  to 
the  fireside ;  they  preferred  the  pavement  or  the  convent  for 
her. 


"A  book  about  marriage,  for  the  family?  Scandalous! 
Rather  write  thirty  romances  about  adultery — something 
imaginative,  something  amusing.  You  will  be  much  better 
received." 

"  Why  fortify  the  family?"  says  a  religious  journal.  "  Isn't 
it  perfect  already  ?  Formerly  there  was  something  they  called 
adultery,  but  that  is  no  longer  to  be  seen."  "  Excuse  us," 
replies  a  great  political  thunderer,  in  a  brilliant  and  extremely 
effective  feuilleton,  "we  beg  your  pardon, — it  is  still  to  be 
seen,  and  everywhere ;  but  there  is  so  little  passion  in  it  that 
it  disturbs  no  one's  comfort ;  it  is  a  thing  inherent  in  French 
marriages,  and  almost  an  institution.  Every  nation  has  its 
own  morals,  and  we  are  not  English." 

Comfort !  yes,  that  is  the  evil.  Neither  the  husband  nor 
the  lover  is  troubled  by  it — nor  the  wife  either ;  she  wishes 
to  get  rid  of  ennui,  that  is  all.  But  in  this  lukewarm,  blood- 
less life,  in  which  we  invest  so  little  heart,  expend  so  little  art, 
in  which  not  one  of  the  three  deigns  to  make  an  effort  of 
any  sort,  everybody  languishes,  yawns,  palls  with  nauseating 
comfortableness. 


We  all  understand  that  well,  and  no  one  is  in  a  hurry  to  be 
married.  If  our  laws  of  succession  did  not  make  women 
rich,  there  would  be  no  more  marrying,  at  least  not  in  the 
large  towns. 

In   the    country    I    heard    a  married    man,    father    of   a 


1 6  Why  People  do  not  Marry. 

family,  a  man  '  well  posted,'  indoctrinating  a  young  neigh- 
bor of  his :  "  If  you  are  to  stay  here,"  he  said,  "  you  will 
have  to  marry ;  but  if  you  live  in  Paris,  it  is  not  worth  the 
trouble,  you  can  dispense  with  it  easily." 

We  all  know  the  saying  which  marked  the  fall  of  the 
world's  most  intellectual  people,  the  Athenians :  "  Ah,  if  we 
could  have  children  without  women."  It  was  much  worse 
under  the  Empire.  All  the  legal  penalties,  those  Julian  laws 
which  made  a  man  marry  d  coup  de  baton,  were  unsuccessful 
in  bringing  man  and  woman  together,  and  it  seemed  that  even 
the  physical  passion — that  fine  necessity  which  spurs  the 
world  along  and  centuples  its  energies — was  extinguished  here 
below.  So  that,  never  again  to  see  a  woman,  men  fled  even 
into  the  Thebais. 


The  motives  which  now-a-days  not  only  cause  marriage  to 
be  feared,  but  estrange  women  from  society,  are  various  and 
complicated.  The  first,  indisputably,  is  the  increasing  misery 
of  poor  girls,  putting  them  at  the  mercy  of  the  world — the 
easy  appropriation  of  those  victims  of  hunger.  Hence  satiety 
and  enervation,  forgetfulness  of  any  higher  love,  and  mortal 
ennui  at  having  to  solicit  tediously  what  may  be  had  so  easily 
every  evening. 

Even  he  who  has  other  needs,  and  a  taste  for  fidelity, 
who  would  like  to  love  with  a  single  intensity,  infinitely 
prefers  a  dependent,  gentle,  obedient  person,  who  thinks  of 
no  rights  of  her  own,  and  who,  if  left  to-morrow,  will  not 
move  a  step — only  wishing  to  please. 

The  strong  and  brilliant  personality  of  our  girls,  which  too 
often  asserts  itself  the  very  day  after  the  wedding,  frightens 
the  celibate.  There  is  no  joke  in  that — the  French  woman 
is  a  character.  It  affords  a  chance  for  immense  happiness — 
but  sometimes  for  unhappincss  also. 

Our  excellent  civil  laws  (which  are  of  the  future,  and  to- 


Why  People  do  not  Marry.  17 

tvard  which  the  world  is  gravitating)  have  none  the  less  added 
to  the  inherent  difficulties  of  the  national  character.  The 
French  woman  is  an  heir,  and  she  knows  it, — has  a  dowry, 
and  she  knows  it.  It  is  not  as  in  some  other  countries,  where 
a  daughter,  if  she  has  any  dowry,  has  it  only  in  money  (a  fluid 
which  easily  runs  out  in  the  business  of  the  husband).  Here 
she  has  real  estate,  and  even  if  her  own  brother  should  desire 
to  purchase  it,  the  law  opposes  him,  and  keeps  her  rich  in 
fixtures,  secured  by  the  dotal  code  or  by  certain  stipulations. 
Such  fortunes  are  almost  always  enduring.  Land  does  not 
take  wings,  houses  do  not  crumble ;  they  remain  to  afford  her 
a  voice  in  the  matter,  a  personality  scarcely  ever  possessed  by 
the  English  or  the  German  woman. 

The  latter,  so  to  speak,  are  absorbed  in  the  husband  ;  they 
sink  into  him  body  and  property  (if  they  have  any  property) ; 
so  that  they  are, -I  believe,  more  completely  than  our  women 
uprooted  from  their  native  family,  which  would  not  receive 
them  again.  The  wife  is  reckoned  as  dead  by  her  own  people, 
who  rejoice  in  establishing  a  daughter  so  as  never  again  to 
have  expenses  on  her  account.  Whatever  may  happen,  and 
wherever  her  husband  may  choose  to  take  her,  she  will  go  and 
remain.  On  such  conditions  marriage  is  less  formidable  to 
the  men. 


A  curious  thing  in  France,  contradictory  in  appearance  but 
not  in  reality,  is  that  marriage  is  very  weak,  and  the  esprit  de 
famille  very  strong.  It  happens  (especially  in  the  provinces, 
among  the  rural  bourgeoisie),  that  the  wife  who  has  been 
some  time  married,  as  soon  as  she  has  children  divides  her 
soul  in  .two  parts,  one  for  her  children,  the  other  for  her  rela- 
tives, for  her  reawakened  first  affections.  What  protection,  in 
that  case,  for  the  husband  ?  None,  the  esprit  de  famillc,  an- 
nuls the  marriage. 

One  can  hardly  imagine  how  wearisome  is  such  a  wife,  bury- 
ing herself  in  a  retrograde  past,  letting  herself  down  to  the 


i8  Why  People  do  not  Marry. 

level  of  a  superannuated  but  lively  mother,  all  imbued  with  old 
things.  The  husband  lives  on  quietly,  but  soon  sickens  of  it — 
discouraged,  weary,  good  for  nothing.  He  loses  the  ideas 
and  hopes  of  progress  he  had  acquired  in  his  studies  and  in 
youthful  society.  He  is  soon  killed  off  by  the  proprietor,  by 
the  dull  stifling  of  that  old  family  hearth. 

Thus  under  a  dowry  of  a  hundred  thousand  francs  is  buried 
a  man  who  might  perhaps  have  earned  as  much  every  year. 

So  says  the  young  man  to  himself  in  his  time  of  aspiration 
and  of  confidence.  But  whether  he  have  more  or  less,  no  mat- 
ter ;  if  he  would  take  his  chance,  know  what  he  is  capable  of, 
he  will  send  the  dowry  to  the  devil.  For  the  sake  of  the  little 
thing  that  beats  under  his  left  breast,  he  will  not,  for  five  hun- 
dred francs,  become  husband  to  the  queen. 


Bachelors  have  often  told  me  this.  They  have  also  told 
me  another  thing;  one  evening  when  I  had  five  or  six  at 
my  house,  men  of  mark,  as  I  was  bantering  them  about  their 
pretended  celibacy,  one  of  them,  a  distinguished  savant, 
littered  these  very  words  to  me,  and  quite  seriously :  "  Never 
believe  that,  whatever  diversions  a  man  may  find  without 
it,  he  is  not  unfortunate  in  having  no  fireside — I  mean  a  wife 
who  is  truly  his  own.  We  all  know  that,  we  feel  it.  There 
is  no  other  repose  for  the  heart ;  and  not  to  have  a  wife,  sir, 
be  sure  is  a  sombre,  cruel,  bitter  life." 

Bitter!  on  that  word  all  the  others  also  laid  stress,  and 
spoke  as  he  did. 

"  But,"  said  he,  "  one  consideration  deters  us.  All  who 
work  in  France  are  poor.  We  live  by  our  engagements,  by 
our  patronage.  We  live  honestly,  I  earn  six  thousand  francs ; 
but  the  wife  I  should  choose  would  spend  that  much  on  her 
toilet.  Their  mothers  educate  them  so.  Suppose  one  of  these 
beautiful  creatures  were  bestowed  on  me,  what  would  become 
of  me  the  next  day,  as  she  left  her  rich  abode  to  find  mine  so 


Why  People  do  not  Marry.  19 

poor.  If  I  loved  her  (and  I  am  quite  capable  of  that),  imagine 
the  misery,  the  wickedness  into  which  I  might  be  tempted,  to 
become  a  little  richer,  and  so  displease  her  a  little  less. 

"  I  shall  always  remember  how  being  once  in  a  small  town 
of  the  South,  to  which  it  was  the  fashion  to  send  sick  people, 
I  saw  a  startling  apparition  pass  by  a  place  where  the  mules 
were  winding  along  in  a  cloud  of  dust.  It  was  a  very  beau- 
tiful woman,  clothed  like  a  courtesan — a  woman,  not  a  girl — 
twenty-five  years  old,  puffed  out,  distended  in  a  fresh  and 
charming  silk  robe  of  blue,  clouded  with  white  (a  master-piece 
of  Lyons),  which  she  dragged  abominably  through  the  dirt- 
iest spots.  She  seemed  not  to  rest  on  the  earth.  Her  blonde 
and  pretty  head  tossed  back  her  jaunty  Amazonian  hat, 
which  gave  her  the  air  of  a  piquant  young  page,  her  whole 
appearance  said,  'I  jest  at  everything.'  I  felt  that  this  idol, 
monstrously  in  love  with  herself,  for  all  her  pride,  belonged, 
from  first  to  last,  to  those  who  flattered  her,  that  they  mocked 
her,  and  that  she  did  not  even  know  what  a  scruple  was.  I 
called  Solomon  to  mind.  'JEfc  tergens  os  suum  dixit:  non 
sum  operata  malum?  This  vision  remained  with  me.  It  was 
not  a  person,  it  was  not  a  thing,  but  it  was  the  fashion,  and 
the  manners  of  the  time,  I  saw;  it  will  always  inspire  me 
with  a  true  terror  of  marriage." 


"  As  for  me,"  said  a  younger  bachelor,  "  the  obstacle,  the 
insuperable  scruple,  is  not  crinoline,  but  religion." 

We  laughed  :  but  he,  becoming  animated,  protested  ; 
"  Yes,  religion.  Women  are  educated  in  dogmas  which  are 
not  ours.  Mothers  who  are  so  desirous  to  have  their  daugh- 
ters married,  give  them  an  education  exactly  calculated  to 
produce  divorce. 

"  What  are  the  dogmas  of  France  ?  If  France  herself 
does  not  know,  Europe  does  very  well ;  its  hatred  perfectly 
reveals  them.  An  enemy,  a  very  retrograding  foreigner, 


2O  Why  People  do  not  Marry. 

once  described  them  to  me  thus :  '  What  renders  your  France 
hateful  to  us,'  he  said,  i  is  that  beneath  its  apparent  muta- 
tions it  never  changes.'  It  is  like  a  lighthouse  in  eclipse,  with 
revolving  lights.  It  shows  or  conceals  the  flame,  but  the 
focus  is  always  the  same.  What  focus  ?  The  wit  of  Voltaire 
(long  previous  to  Voltaire)  ;  in  the  second  place  ('89),  the 
grand  laws  of  the  Revolution  ;  and  in  the  third  place,  the 
canons  of  your  scientific  pope,  the  Academy  of  Sciences.' 

"  I  disputed  it.  He  insisted ;  and  I  now  see  that  he  was 
right.  Yes,  whatever  new  questions  may  arise,  '89  is  the 
faith  even  of  those  who  postpone  '89,  and  refer  it  to  the 
future.  It  is  the  faith  of  all  France,  and  that  is  why  foreigners 
condemn  us  altogether,  and  without  distinction  of  parties. 

"  Well,  the  daughters  of  France  are  carefully  educated  to 
hate  and  contemn  what  all  France  loves  and  believes  in .  Thrice 
they  have  embraced,  weakened,  killed  the  Revolution ;  first, 
in  the  sixteenth  century,  in  the  matter  of  liberty  of  con- 
science ;  then,  at  the  end  of  the  eighteenth,  in  the  question  of 
political  liberty.  They  have  devoted  themselves  to  the  past, 
not  knowing  what  indeed  that  is.  They  like  to  listen  to  those 
who  say  with  Pascal :  '  Nothing  is  sure  ;  therefore,  believe  in 
the  absurd.'  Women  are  rich  in  France ;  they  have  much 
wit,  and  every  means  of  instruction.  But  they  will  not  learn 
anything,  nor  create  a  faith  for  themselves.  Let  them  meet  a 
man  of  serious  faith,  a  man  of  heart,  who  believes  and  loves 
established  truths,  and  they  say  with  a  smile :  '  That  man 
doesn't  believe  in  anything.' " 


There  was  a  momentary  pause.  This  rather  violent  sully 
had  nevertheless,  I  perceived,  won  the  assent  of  all  present. 
I  said  to  them:  "If  what  you  have  just  advanced  be  admit- 
ted, I  believe  we  must  say  it  has  been  often  just  the  same  in 
other  ages,  and  people  have  married,  nevertheless.  Women 
loved  dress  and  luxury,  and  were  conservative,  but  the  men 


Why  People  do  not  Marry.  21 

of  those  times  were  doubtless  more  daring ;  they  faced  those 
perils,  hoping  that  their  influence,  their  energy,  above  all  their 
love,  the  master  and  conqueror  of  conquerors,  would  effect 
happy  changes  in  their  favor.  Intrepid  Curtii,  they  threw 
themselves  boldly  into  the  gulf  of  uncertainties,  and  very 
happily  for  us.  For,  gentlemen,  but  for  the  audacity  of  our 
fathers,  we  had  never  been  born. 

"  Now,  will  you  permit  a  friend  older  than  you  to  speak  with 
frankness  ?  Then  I  shall  venture  to  tell  you  that  if  you  were 
truly  alone,  if  you  endured  without  consolation  the  life  you 
find  so  bitter,  you  would  make  haste  to  change  it,  you  would 
say :  Love  is  strong  and  can  do  whatever  it  will.  The  greater 
will  be  the  glory  of  converting  these  absurd  and  charming 
beauties  to  reason.  With  a  great,  resolute,  and  persevering 
purpose,  well-chosen  means,  and  skilfully  calculated  circum- 
stances, one  may  do  much.  But  it  is  necessary  to  love,  to 
love  intensely,  and  love  a  single  object.  No  coldness.  The 
cultivated  and  coveted  woman  infallibly  belongs  to  the  man. 
If  the  man  of  this  age  complains  that  he  does  not  reach  her 
soul,  it  is  because  he  has  not  what  subdues  the  soul,  viz.  con- 
centrated strength  of  desire. 


"  Now,  to  speak  only  of  the  obstacle  first  alleged,  of  the 
unrestrained  pride  of  women,  their  madness  for  the  toilet,  etc. : 
it  seems  to  me  that  this  applies  especially  to  the  upper  classes, 
to  rich  ladies,  or  to  those  who  mingle  with  wealthy  people. 
There  are  two  or  three  hundred  thousand  of  these.  But  do 
you  know  how  many  women  there  are  in  France  ?  Eighteen 
millions,  and  eighteen  hundred  thousand  marriageable. 

"It  would  be  great  injustice  to  accuse  them  all  of  the  wrongs 
and  follies  of  '  our  best  society.'  If  they  imitate  it  at  a  dis- 
tance, it  is  not  always  from  choice.  Ladies,  by  their 
example,  often  by  their  contempt  or  their  ridicule,  cause  great 
misfortunes  in  this  way.  They  impose  an  impossible  luxury 


22  Why  People  do  not  Marry. 

on  poor  creatures  who  sometimes  would  not  care  for  it,  but 
who  by  their  position,  involving  serious  interests,  are  forced  to 
be  brilliant ;  and  to  be  so,  they  plunge  into  great  extravagance. 

"  Women  who  have  their  own  peculiar  world  and  so  many 
secrets  in  common,  ought  certainly  to  love  each  other  a  little, 
and  sustain  each  other,  instead  of  warring  among  themselves. 
They  inflict  mutual  injury,  in  a  thousand  cases,  indirectly. 
The  wealthy  dame  whose  luxury  changes  the  costume  of  the 
poor  girl,  does  the  latter  a  great  wrong — she  prevents  her 
marriage ;  for  no  workman  cares  to  marry  a  doll,  so  expen- 
sive to  dress.  If  she  remains  a  maiden,  she  is,  perhaps,  an 
office  or  a  shop  girl,  but  even  in  that  capacity  the  lady  still 
harms  her ;  she  prefers  to  deal  with  a  clerk,  in  a  black  coat,  a 
flatterer,  and  finds  him  more  womanly  than  the  woman.  The 
shopkeepers  have  thus  been  led  to  substitute,  at  great  ex- 
pense, the  clerk  for  the  girl,  who  cost  much  less. 

"  What  will  become  of  her  ?  If  she  is  pretty,  twenty  years 
of  age,  she  will  be  4  protected,'  and  will  pass  from  hand  to 
hand.  Soon  fading,  before  thirty,  she  will  become  a  seam- 
stress, and  work  for  her  ten  sous  a  day.  She  has  no  means  of 
living  save  by  earning  her  bread  every  night  in  shame.  Thus 
the  woman  of  wealth,  depreciating  her  own  sex,  goes  on  mak- 
ing celibacy  more  and  more  economical,  and  marriage  unpro- 
fitable, until,  by  a  terrible  retribution,  her  own  daughter  will 
never  be  able  to  marry. 

"Do  you  wish  me,  gentlemen,  to  briefly  portray  the  lot 
of  woman  in  France  ?  No  one  has  yet  done  it  with  sim- 
plicity. This  picture,  if  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  will  touch 
your  hearts,  and  perhaps  enlighten  you,  and  will  prevent 
you  from  confounding  very  different  classes  in  the  same  ana- 
thema.'' 


The  Female  Operative.  23 

II. 

THE    FEMALE    OPERATIVE. 

WHEN  the  English  manufacturers,  enormously  enriched  by 
new  machinery,  complained  to  Pitt,  saying  :  "  We  cannot  go 
on,  we  do  not  make  money  enough,"  he  gave  them  a  terrible 
answer,  a  stain  on  his  memory :  "  Take  the  children." 

How  much  more  guilty  are  those  who  took  women,  who 
opened  to  the  wretchedness  of  the  city  girl,  to  the  blindness  of 
the  peasant,  the  fatal  resource  of  an  exterminating  labor,  and 
the  promiscuity  of  factories !  He  who  takes  the  woman,  takes 
also  the  child ;  for  in  every  one  that  perishes,  a  family  is 
destroyed,  many  children,  and  the  hope  of  generations  to 
come. 

Barbarism  of  our  West !  Woman  is  no  longer  esteemed 
for  the  love  and  happiness  of  man,  still  less  for  maternity  and 
the  power  of  reproduction — but  as  an  operative. 

Operative !  an  impious,  sordid  word,  which  no  language 
ever  had,  which  no  period  could  have  ever  understood  before 
this  iron  age,  and  which  alone  would  counterbalance  all  our 
pretended  progress. 

Here  comes  the  close  band  of  economists,  doctors  of  the 
net  proceeds.  "  But,  sir,"  they  say,  "  the  high  economic  and 
social  necessities !  Industry  would  be  obstructed,  stopped. 
In  the  name  of  these  same  poor  classes,"  etc.,  etc. 

The  first  necessity  is  to  live,  and  palpably,  we  are  perishing. 
The  population  no  longer  increases,  and  its  quality  is  degene- 
rating. The  peasant  girl  dies  of  labor,  the  female  operative 
of  hunger.  What  children  can  we  expect  from  them  ?  Abor- 
tions, more  and  more. 

"  But  a  people  does  not  perish  !"  Many  peoples,  even  of 
those  which  still  figure  on  the  map,  no  longer  exist.  The 
Scottish  Highlanders  have  disappeared.  Ireland  no  longer 
presents  a  race.  Wealthy,  absorbing  England,  that  prodi- 


24  The  Female  Operative. 

gious  blood-sucker  of  the  world,  does  not  succeed  in  renew- 
ing itself  by  the  most  enormous  alimentation.  The  race  is 
changing  and  growing  weak  there,  has  recourse  to  stimu- 
lants, to  alcohol,  and  is  more  and  more  enfeebled.  Those 
who  saw  it  in  1815  did  not  recognise  it  in  1830,  and  how 
much  less  to-day ! 

What  can  the  State  do  for  this  ?  Very  little  in  England, 
where  the  industrial  life  swallows  up  everything,  the  whole 
country  being  now  but  one  factory.  But  an  infinite  good  in 
France,  where  we  as  yet  have  so  few  laborers,  comparatively. 

How  many  things  that  were  impossible,  have  nevertheless 
been  done  !  It  was  impossible  to  abolish  lotteries ;  they  are 
abolished.  We  would  have  sworn  it  was  impossible  to 
demolish  Paris  in  order  to  re-build  it :  but  that  was  easily 
done  by  a  brief  clause  in  the  code  (Appropriation  for  Public 
Improvements) . 


I  see  two  peoples  in  our  cities : 

The  one  dressed  in  woollen — that  is  man, — the  other  in 
wretched  cotton,  and  that  too,  even  in  winter. 

By  the  former  I  mean  the  lowest  operative,  the  least  paid 
bungler — a  servant  of  operatives.  This  man,  however,  eats 
meat  in  the  morning  (a  Bologna  sausage,  or  something  else). 
In  the  evening  he  enters  a  cookshop,  and  has  a  dish  of  meat, 
and  even  drinks  some  bad  wine. 

The  woman  of  the  same  condition  takes  a  sou's  worth  of 
milk  in  the  morning,  some  bread  at  noon,  and  some  bread  at 
night,  and  very  rarely  a  bit  of  cheese.  Do  you  deny  that  ? 
It  is  certain  ;  I  will  prove  it  presently.  Her  day's  income  is 
ten  sous,  and  cannot  be  eleven,  for  a  reason  which  I  will 
explain. 

Why  is  it  so  ?  The  man  no  longer  wishes  to  marry,  no 
longer  wishes  to  protect  the  woman.  He  lives  greedily  alone. 

Can  it  be  said  that  ho  leads  an  abstinent  life  ?     No.     He 


The  Female  Operative.  2_J 

deprives  himself   of  nothing.      Besotted    on  Sunday  night, 
he  will  find  without  seeking  some  hungry  shadow  of  a  wo 
man,  and  will  outrage  the  dead  creature. 
One  blushes  at  being  a  man. 


"  I  make  too  little  money,"  says  he  ;  four  or  five  times 
more  than  the  woman,  in  most  trades.  He  earns  forty  or 
fifty  sous,  and  she  ten,  as  we  shall  see. 

The  poverty  of  the  male  operative  would  be  wealth,  abun 
dance,  luxury,  to  the  female. 

The  former  complains  much  the  more ;  and,  as  soon  as  he  is 
in  want  at  all,  he  wants  many  more  things.  We  may  say  of 
them  what  has  been  said  of  the  Englishman  and  the  Irishman  : 
"The  Irishman  is  hungry  for  potatoes,  the  Englishman  is 
hungry  for  meats,  sugar,  tea,  beer,  liquors,  etc." 

In  the  budget  of  the  workman's  necessities  I  have  over- 
looked two  things  in  which  he  indulges  at  any  price,  and  of 
which  the  workwoman  never  thinks :  tobacco  and  beer.  In 
most  cases  these  two  articles  absorb  more  money  than  a 
family. 

The  pay  of  the  men  has,  I  know,  sustained  a  rude  shock,  j 
chiefly  from  the  eifect  of  the  precious  metal  crisis,  which 
changed  the  value  of  silver.  Their  wages  will  rise  again,  but 
slowly  ;  time  is  needed  to  restore  the  equilibrium.  But,  allow- 
ing for  this,  the  difference  still  exists ;  the  woman  is  much  the 
more  affected.  It  is  meats  and  wine  that  he  must  give  up  : 
with  her,  it  is  bread  itself.  She  cannot  economize  ;  one  step 
lower,  and  she  dies. 


"  It  is  their  own  fault,"  says  the  economist.  "  Why  are 
they  so  mad  as  to  leave  their  fields,  and  come  to  die  of  hunger 
in  towns  ?  If  it  is  not  the  workwoman  herself,  it  was  her 

2 


26  The  Female  Operative. 

mother  who  came,  and  instead  of  a  peasant  became  a  domes- 
tic. She  did  not  fail,  though  unmarried,  to  have  a  child,  which 
child  is  the  operative." 

My  dear  Sir,  do  you  know  what  country  life  is  in  France — 
How  terrible,  excessive,  severe  the  labor  is  ?  Women  do  not 
till  in  England ;  they  are  very  miserable,  but  yet  they  have 
sheds  to  protect  them  from  the  wind  and  rain.  Germany, 
with  its  forests  and  its  prairies,  with  its  very  slow  labor,  and 
national  gentleness,  does  not  crush  out  woman  as  we  do.  The 
durus  arator  of  the  poet  has  his  reality  scarcely  anywhere 
but  here.  Why  ?  He  is  a  proprietor — proprietor  of  little 
or  nothing,  and  in  debt.  By  a  furious,  blind  labor,  and 
unskilful  agriculture,  he  struggles  with  the  vulture;  the 
land  threatens  to  escape  from  him.  Rather  than  that  should 
happen,  he  will  bury  himself  in  it,  if  need  be  ;  but,  first,  cer- 
tainly, his  wife.  It  is  for  this  that  he  marries,  in  order  to 
have  a  workman ;  in  the  Antilles,  they  buy  a  negro ;  in  France, 
we  marry  a  wife. 

She  is  preferred  who  has  a  small  appetite,  a  lithe  and  slen- 
der figure — from  an  idea  that  she  will  eat  less  (a  historic 
fact). 

She  has  a  great  heart,  this  poor  French  woman,  and  does  as 
much  or  more  than  is  required.  She  drives  the  ass  (in  light 
soild),  and  the  man  holds  the  plough.  In  any  case,  she  has 
the  hardest  part.  He  prunes  the  vine  at  his  ease — she  scrapes 
and  digs.  He  has  respites — she  none.  He  has  festive  occa- 
sions and  friends.  He  goes  alone  to  the  tavern — she  goes 
for  a  moment  to  church,  and  there  falls  asleep.  If  he  returns 
at  night  intoxicated,  she  is  beaten,  and  often,  which  is  worst, 
when  she  is  enceinte.  Then  she  endures  for  a  year  her  double 
suifering,  in  heat  and  cold,  chilled  by  the  wind,  drenched  by 
the  rain,  daily. 


Most  of  them  die  of  consumption,  especially  in  the  north 
(see  the  statistics).    No  constitution  can  withstand  their  *mode 


The  Female  Operative.  27 

of  life.  Then  forgive  the  mother  if  she  desires  her  daughter  to 
suffer  less,  if  she  sends  her  to  the  factory,  there  at  least  she 
will  have  a  roof  over  her  head ;  or  makes  her  a  domestic  in 
town,  where  she  will  partake  of  the  amenities  of  the  bour- 
geoisie. The  girl  is  only  too  eager  for  that ;  every  woman 
has  in  fancy  little  needs  of  elegance,  finery,  and  aristocracy. 

She  is  at  once  punished  for  it.  She  no  longer  sees  the  sun. 
Her  mistress  is  often  very  hard,  especially  if  the  girl  be  pretty. 
She  is  immolated  to  spoiled  children,  vicious  monkeys,  and 
cruel  little  cats,  who  make  her  their  plaything ;  or  else  she  is 
blamed,  scolded,  teased,  abused.  Then  she  would  be  glad  to 
die,  home-sickness  takes  possession  of  her ;  but  she  knows 
that  her  father  would  never  receive  her.  She  grows  pale  and 
wastes  away. 

Only  the  master  is  good  to  her.  He  would  console  her  if  he 
dared.  He  clearly  sees  that  in  her  desolate  state,  in  which  she 
has  never  a  word  of  kindness,  the  little  one  is  in  the  power  of 
a«y  one  who  will  evince  the  least  friendship  for  her.  The 
opportunity  soon  arrives,  madame  being  in  the  country.  The 
resistance  is  not  great ;  he  is  her  master,  and  he  is  strong. 
She  is  enceinte^  and  a  great  storm  follows.  The  husband, 
ashamed,  shrugs  his  shoulders.  She  is  driven  out  of  doors, 
and  without  bread,  lives  in  the  streets  till  she  can  go  to  the 
hospital  for  her  accouchement.  (This  is  the  almost  invariable 
story.  See  the  confessions  noted  by  physicians.) 

What  will  be  her  life,  great  God,  what  struggles,  what 
difficulties,  if  she  has  so  good  a  heart,  so  much  courage,  as  to 
wish  to  rear  her  child  ! 


Let  us  notice  the  condition  of  woman  thus  burdened,  in 
circumstances  comparatively  favorable. 

A  young  Protestant  widow,  of  very  austere  morals,  laborious, 
economical,  temperate,  exemplary  in  every  sense,  agreeable 
also,  in  spite  of  all  she  has  suffered,  lives  behind  the  Hotel- 


28  The  Female  Operative. 

Dieu,  in  an  unhealthy  street,  lower  than  the  wharf.  She  has 
a  sickly  child,  who  is  always  trying  to  go  to  school,  always 
falling  ill,  and  cannot  get  on.  Her  rent  is  raised,  less  than  many 
others,  from  one  hundred  and  twenty  to  one  hundred  and 
sixty  francs.  She  said  to  two  excellent  ladies,  "  When  I  can 
go  out  by  the  day,  they  will  give  me  twenty  sous,  even  twenty- 
five  ;  but  that  happens  scarcely  more  than  two  or  three  times 
a  week.  If  you  had  not  had  the  goodness  to  aid  me  with  my 
rent,  by  giving  me  five  francs  a  month,  I  must  have  done  like 
the  others,  and,  to  support  my  child,  have  walked  the  streets 
in  the  evening." 

The  poor  woman  who  thus  walks  the  streets  trembling, 
alas !  to  offer  herself  up,  is  immeasurably  above  the  coarse 
man,  whom  she  must  address.  Our  work-women  who  have 
so  much  wit,  taste,  and  tact,  are  usually  physically  favored, 
graceful,  and  delicate.  What  is  the  difference  between  them 
and  the  ladies  of  the  higher  classes  ?  The  foot  ?  No.  The 
figure?  No.  The  hand  alone  constitutes  the  difference,  be- 
cause the  poor  operative,  forced  to  wash  often,  passing  the 
winter  in  her  little  room  with  a  simple  foot-stove,  has  her 
hands,  her  only  means  of  labor  and  of  life,  swollen  grievously, 
bursting  with  chilblains.  With  almost  only  that  exception 
the  same  woman,  if  a  little  dressed,  is  Madame  la  Comtesse, 
as  much  as  any  in  the  grand  Faubourg.  She  has  not  the 
jargon  of  the  world ;  she  is  much  more  romantic,  more  lively. 
Let  but  a  gleam  of  happiness  fall  on  her,  and  she  will  eclipse 
them  all. 


We  do  not  sufficiently  remark  what  an  aristocracy  women 
form ;  there  is  no  populace  among  them. 

As  I  was  driving  down  the  street,  a  young  woman  with  a 
gentle,  feminine  countenance,  worn,  but  delicate,  pretty,  and 
distinguished,  followed  the  carriage  addressing  me  in  vain,  for 
I  did  not  understand  English.  Her  beautiful  supplicating  blue 
eyes  seemed  profoundly  sorrowful  under  her  little  straw  hat. 


The  Female  Operative.  29 

"  Sir,"  said  I  to  my  neighbor,  who  understood  French, 
"  can  you  tell  me  what  that  charming  person  is  saying  to  me, 
she  who  has  the  air  of  a  duchess,  and  who  for  some  reason 
persists  in  following  the  carriage."  "  Sir,"  said  he,  politely, 
"  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  she  is  an  operative  without 
work,  who  is  begging  in  violation  of  the  law." 


Two  important  events  have  changed  the  lot  of  woman  in 
Europe,  in  these  latter  years. 

She  has  only  two  great  trades,  spinning  and  sewing.  The 
others  (embroidery,  flowers,  etc.)  scarcely  deserve  to  be 
counted.  Woman  is  a  spinner,  woman  is  a  seamstress.  It  has 
been  her  business  in  all  times :  it  is  her  universal  history. 

Well,  it  is  no  longer  so ;  it  has  just  been  changed.  The 
loom  has  suppressed  the  spinner.  It  is  not  only  her  earnings, 
but  a  whole  world  of  habits  that  she  has  lost.  The  peasant 
used  to  spin  as  she  watched  her  children  and  fire ;  she  spun 
in  the  watches  of  the  night ;  she  spun  as  she  walked,  driving 
her  cow  or  her  sheep. 

The  seamstress  was  the  operative  of  towns;  she  wrought  at 
home,  either  continuously,  the  livelong  day,  or  divided  the 
labor  with  her  household  cares.  For  all  important  purposes, 
this  no  longer  exists.  First,  convents  and  prisons  presented 
a  terrible  competition  to  the  isolated  seamstress;  now  the 
sewing-machine  comes  to  annihilate  her. 

The  achievements  of  the  two  machines,  cheapness  and  good 
work,  will  make  their  products  prevail  everywhere.  There 
is  nothing  to  be  said  against  them,  nothing  to  be  done. 
Indeed,  these  great  inventions  will,  in  the  end,  be  advantage- 
ous to  the  human  race ;  but  their  effects  are  cruel  in  the 
period  of  transition. 

How  many  women  in  Europe,  and  elsewhere,  will  be  de- 
voured by  these  two  terrible  ogres,  the  brazen  spinner  and 
the  iron  sewer  ?  Millions — but  it  can  never  be  calculated. 


30  The  Female  Operative. 

The  needle-women  were  so  suddenly  famished  in  England, 
that  many  societies  are  occupied  in  promoting  their  emigra- 
tion to  Australia.  The  sum  advanced  is  seven  hundred  and 
twenty  francs,  but  the  emigrant  can,  after  the  first  year, 
return  half  of  it  (IZlosseville).  In  that  country,  where  the 
males  are  infinitely  the  more  numerous,  she  marries  without 
difficulty,  fortifying  with  new  families  that  powerful  colony, 
more  stable  than  the  Indian  empire. 

What  becomes  of  ours  ?  They  do  not  make  much  noise. 
They  do  not,  like  the  conspiring  and  sturdy  laborers,  masons, 
carpenters,  make  a  formidable  strike,  and  dictate  terms. 
They  die  of  hunger,  and  that  is  all.  The  fearful  mortality  of 
1854  fell  especially  on  them. 

Since  that  time,  their  condition  has  been  sorely  aggravated. 
Ladies'  gaiters  are  sewed  by  machinery.  Flower-makers  are 
paid  much  less. 

To  inform  myself  on  this  sad  subject,  I  spoke  of  it  to  many 
persons,  especially  to  my  venerable  friend  and  associate,  Dr. 
Villermi  and  M.  de  Guerry,  whose  excellent  works  are  so 
highly  esteemed,  and  to  a  young  statistician  whose  vigorous 
method  I  had  much  admired,  Dr.  Bertillon.  He  had  the 
extreme  kindness  to  make  a  serious  task  of  it,  combining  with 
the  data  furnished  by  the  laboring  classes,  others  communi- 
cated by  public  officers.  I  wish  he  would  complete  and  pub- 
lish it. 

I  will  give  but  one  line  of  his  statement :  "  In  the  great  trade 
which  occupies  all  women  (except  a  very  few),  needlework, 
they  can  earn  but  ten  sous  a  day." 

Why  ?  "  Because  machinery,  which  is  still  dear  enough, 
does  the  labor  for  ten  sous.  If  the  woman  demanded 
eleven,  the  machine  would  be  preferred." 

And  how  does  she  make  up  the  loss?  "She  walks  the 
street  at  night." 

That  is  why  the  number  of  filles  publiques,  registered  and 
numbered,  does  not  increase  in  Paris,  and,  I  believe,  diminishes 
a  little. 


The  Woman  of  Letters.  31 

Man  does  not  content  himself  with  inventing  machines 
which  suppress  the  two  great  trades  of  woman,  he  takes  pos- 
session directly  of  the  secondary  industries  by  which  she 
lived,  and  descends  to  all  the  avocations  of  weakness.  Can 
the  woman,  at  her  will,  rise  to  the  trades  that  demand 
strength,  and  assume  those  of  men  ?  By  no  means. 

The  Nonchalant  and  lazy  ladies,  buried  in  divans,  may 
say  as  much  as  they  like :  "  Woman  is  not  an  invalid." 
That  which  is  nothing,  when  one  maybe  nursed  two  or  three 
days,  becomes  overwhelming  to  her  who  has  no  repose,  and 
she  becomes  ill  at  once. 

In  fact,  woman  cannot  labor  long,  either  standing  or  sit- 
ting. If  she  is  always  sitting,  the  blood  rises,  the  breast  is 
irritated,  the  stomach  embarrassed,  the  head  clogged.  If  she 
stands,  like  the  laundress,  or  the  compositor,  she  has  other 
sanguineous  accidents.  She  can  labor  long  only  by  vary- 
ing her  position,  as  she  does  in  her  household,  going  and 
coining. 

A  household  she  ought  to  have,  she  ought  to  be  married. 


III. 

THE  WOMAN  OF  LETTERS. 

THE  well-educated  girl,  as  she  is  called  who  can  teach,  be- 
comes governess  in  a  family,  or  "  professor"  of  certain  arts — 
does  she  fare  any  better  in  her  business  ?  I  wish  I  could  say 
yes.  Those  gentle  offices  do  not  the  less  cause  her  an  infini- 
tude of  risks,  altogether  a  troubled  life,  an  abortive  and  some- 
times tragical  destiny.  Everything  is  difficult  for  the  solitary 
woman,  everything  a  barrier  or  a  precipice. 

Fifteen  years  ago  I  received  a  visit  from  a  young  and  amiable 
girl,  sent  by  her  parents  from  a  provincial  place  to  Paris.  She 
was  directed  to  a  friend  of  her  family,  who  might  aid  her  to 


32  The  Woman  of  Letters. 

gain  a  livelihood  by  procuring  pupils  for  her.  I  expressed 
my  astonishment  at  their  imprudence.  Then  she  told  me  all. 
They  had  sent  her  into  this  peril  to  avoid  another ;  she  had  at 
home  a  lover,  entirely  worthy,  who  wished  to  marry  her. 
He  was  a  most  excellent  man,  a  man  of  talent ;  but,  alas !  he 
was  poor.  "  My  parents  esteem,  love  him,"  said  she,  "  but 
they  fear  we  would  die  of  hunger." 

I  told  her  without  hesitation  :  "  It  is  better  to  die  of  hun- 
ger than  to  run  the  gauntlet  of  Paris  pavements.  I  bid  you, 
miss,  return — not  to-morrow,  but  to-day — to  your  parents. 
Every  hour  that  you  remain  here  you  will  lose  a  fortune. 
Alone,  inexperienced,  what  will  become  of  you  ?" 

She  followed  my  advice.  Her  parents  consented,  and  she 
was  married.  Her  life  was  a  hard  one,  full  of  trials,  but  ex- 
emplary and  honorable,  sharing  her  time  between  the  care  of 
her  children  and  the  intelligent  aid  she  afforded  her  husband 
in  his  labors — I  can  still  see  her  running  in  the  winter  to  the 
libraries,  where  she  took  notes  for  him.  With  all  these  mise- 
ries, and  the  grief  I  felt  at  not  being  able  to  help  their  proud 
poverty,  I  never  regretted  the  counsel  I  gave  her.  She  en- 
joyed much  in  her  heart,  suffered  only  in  her  fortune ;  there 
was  never  a  happier  household.  She  died,  beloved,  pure,  and 
respected. 


The  worst  destiny  for  woman  is  to  live  alone. 

Alone  !  the  very  word  is  sad  to  utter.  And  how  can  there 
be  on  earth  a  Lone  Woman  ? 

What !  Are  there  no  more  men  ?  Are  we  in  the  last 
days  of  the  world  ?  Does  the  consummation  of  all  things, 
the  approach  of  the  final  judgment,  render  us  so  selfish  that 
we  shut  ourselves  up  in  fear  of  the  future,  and  in  the  shame 
of  solitary  pleasures  ? 

We  recognise  the  Lone  Woman  at  the  first  glance.  Take  her 
in  her  own  neighborhood,  or  anywhere  where  she  is  known, 


The  Woman  of  Letters. 


33 


and  she  has  the  disengaged,  free,  elegantly  lightsome  air  pe- 
culiar to  the  women  of  France. 

But  in  a  place  where  she  thinks  herself  less  observed,  and 
lets  herself  out,  what  sadness,  what  visible  dejection !  I  met 
some  of  these  last  winter,  still  young,  but  in  the  decay  of  their 
bloom,  fallen  from  the  hat  to  the  bonnet,  grown  a  little  thin 
and  pale — with  ennui  and  anxiety — with  bad  and  innutritions 
food,  perhaps.  To  make  them  again  beautiful  and  charming, 
a  very  little  would  have  sufficed :  hope,  and  three  months  of 
happiness. 

What  obstacles  present  themselves  to  the  solitary  woman  ! 
She  can  scarcely  go  out  in  the  evening ;  she  would  be  taken 
for  a  "  girl.".  There  are  a  thousand  places  where  only  men 
are  seen,  and  if  anything  should  bring  her  there,  they  are 
surprised,  and  laugh  sillily.  For  example,  suppose  she  is 
belated  on  the  skirts  of  Paris,  and  hungry,  she  dare  not 
enter  a  restaurant.  She  would  cause  a  sensation,  make  her- 
self a  sight;  every  eye  would  be  fixed  upon  her,  and  she 
would  hear  reckless  and  unpleasant  conjectures.  She  has  a 
whole  league  to  return,  and,  having  arrived  late,  kindles  her 
fire,  prepares  her  slight  repast.  She  avoids  making  a  noise, 
because  a  curious  neighbor — some  stupid  student,  or  young 
clerk,  perhaps — might  apply  his  eye  to  the  keyhole,  or  ab- 
ruptly enter  to  offer  his  services.  The  vexatious  indiscrimi- 
nateness,  or  rather  the  slavishness  of  our  vast  and  abominable 
barracks,  which  we  call  houses,  make  her  tremble  at  a  thou- 
sand things,  and  hesitate  at  every  step.  All  is  embarrassing 
for  her,  and  free  to  a  man.  How  cautiously,  for  example, 
does  she  shut  herself  in,  when  on  Sunday  her  young  and 
noisy  neighbors  have  what  they  call  a  repas  de  gargons. 

Let  us  examine  this  house. 

She  lives  in  the  fourth  story,  and  makes  so  little  noise  that 
the  occupant  of  the  third  believed  for  some  time  that  there 
was  no  one  above  him.  He  is  scarcely  less  unfortunate 
tlian  she  —  a  man  whom  delicate  health  and  a  modest 
income  have  induced  to  be  idle.  Without  being  old,  he  has 

2* 


34  The  Woman  of  Letters. 

already  the  prudent  habits  of  a  man  who  is  for  ever  occupied 
in  taking  care  of  himself.  A  piano  which  wakes  him  a  little 
sooner  than  he  would  like,  has  revealed  the  solitary  woman ; 
then,  once,  he  detected  on  the  stairway  a  charming  woman, 
rather  pale,  but  of  fragile  elegance,  and  his  curiosity  is 
aroused.  Nothing  is  easier  than  to  gratify  it ;  the  porters 
are  not  dumb,  and  her  life  is  so  transparent.  Except  when 
she  is  giving  her  lessons,  she  is  always  at  home,  and  always 
studying ;  she  is  preparing  for  examination,  preferring  to  be  a 
governess,  in  order  to  have  the  protection  of  a  family.  In 
fact,  they  speak  so  well  of  her,  that  he  begins  to  reflect. 
"  Ah  !  if  I  were  not  poor !"  says  he.  "It  is  very  pleasant  to 
have  the  society  of  a  pretty  woman  who  understands  every- 
thing ;  saves  you  from  passing  your  evenings  at  the  theatre 
or  the  cafe.  But  when,  like  me,  a  man  has  only  ten  thousand 
livres  income,  he  cannot  marry." 

He  then  calculates  and  adds  up,  but,  as  usual  in  such  cases, 
makes  the  account  double,  combining  the  probable  expenses 
of  a  married  man,  and  those  of  the  bachelor  who  keeps  up  the 
cafe  and  the  theatre.  It  was  thus  that  one  of  my  friends, 
one  of  the  most  brilliant  journalists  of  Paris,  discovered  that 
to  support  two,  without  a  domestic,  in  a  tiny  house  in  the 
suburbs,  an  income  of  thirty  thousand  livres  would  be 
necessary. 

This  lamentable  life  of  honorable  solitude  and  desperate 
ennui,  is  that  which  is  led  by  those  wandering  shades,  called 
in  England  members  of  clubs.  The  system  is  beginning  also 
in  France.  Very  well  catered  to,  very  well  warmed,  in  splen- 
did establishments,  having  at  hand  all  the  journals,  and  choice 
libraries,  living  together  like  well-educated  and  polished  dead 
men,  they  progress  in  spleen,  and  prepare  themselves 
for  suicide.  Everything  is  so  well  organized  that  speech  is 
useless ;  there  is  no  need  even  of  signs.  On  certain  days  of 
the  year,  a  tailor  presents  himself  and  takes  measures,  without 
speaking.  There  is  not  a  woman  in  the  house,  nor  would  they 
go  to  the  houses  of  women.  But  once  a  week  a  girl  will 


The  Woman  of  Letters.  35 

bring  gloves,  and  such  things,  paid  for  in  advance,  and  noise- 
lessly depart  in  five  minutes. 


I  have  sometimes,  in  an  omnibus,  met  a  young  girl,  mo- 
destly attired,  always  wearing  a  hat,  whose  eyes  were  fixed 
on  a  book,  and  never  once  raised.  Seated  close  to  her,  I  have 
observed  it  without  staring. 

Most  frequently,  the  book  was  some  grammar,  or  one  ol 
those  manuals  of  examination.  Little  books,  thick  and  com- 
pact, in  which  all  the  sciences  are  concentrated  in  a  dry,  un- 
digested form,  as  if  they  were  flint.  Nevertheless,  she  put  it 
all  into  her  stomach,  that  young  victim.  Certainly,  she  was 
eager  to  absorb  as  much  as  possible.  She  devoted  her  days 
and  nights  to  it,  even  the  moments  of  repose  the  omnibus 
afforded,  between  the  lessons  she  gave  and  those  she  received 
at  the  two  ends  of  Paris.  That  inexorable  idea  pursued  her. 
She  never  thought  of  raising  her  eyes.  Fear  of  that  exami- 
nation weighed  heavily  on  her. 

We  hardly  know  how  alarmed  they  are.  I  have  seen  some 
who,  for  several  weeks  beforehand,  did  not  sleep,  and  scarcely 
breathed,  but  only  wept. 

We  must  have  compassion. 

Observe,  that  in  the  present  state  of  our  morals,  I  am  a 
strong  partisan  of  these  examinations,  which  facilitate  an 
honorable  existence,  somewhat  more  free.  I  do  not  ask  that 
they  be  simplified,  that  the  field  of  required  studies  be 
narrowed ;  yet,  I  would  like  a  different  method :  in  history, 
for  example,  a  small  number  of  great  cardinal  facts,  with  their 
circumstances  and  details,  and  no  tables  of  contents.  I  sub- 
mit this  reflection  to  my  learned  colleagues  and  friends,  who 
are  the  judges  in  these  examinations. 

I  would  like,  moreover,  to  see  their  timidity  humored ;  that 
the  examinations  should  be  public  only  to  ladies,  and  that  no 
men  but  the  relatives  of  the  girls  be  admitted.  It  is  hard  that 


36  The  Woman  of  Letters. 

they  should  be  compelled  to  submit  to  such  a  trial  before  a 
curious  audience,  with  a  sprinkling  of  jesting  young  men. 
To  each,  also,  should  be  left  the  choice  of  the  day  for  her 
examination.  To  many,  the  trial  is  terrible,  and  without  this 
precaution  might  endanger  their  lives. 

Eugene  Sue,  in  a  feebly  executed  romance,  but  marked  by  ad- 
mirable observation  (LaGouvernante),  presents  a  true  picture 
of  the  life  of  a  girl  suddenly  installed  in  the  house  of  a  stranger, 
whose  children  she  is  to  educate.  Equal,  or  superior,  by  her 
education,  modest  in  her  position  and  in  her  character,  she  is 
only  too  interesting.  The  father  is  much  touched  by  her; 
the  son  declares  himself  in  love ;  the  servants  are  jealous  of 
the  attentions  of  which  she  is  the  object,  and  scandalize  her. 
But  how  many  things  are  to  be  added  ?  How  incomplete 
has  Sue  left  the  sad  Iliad  of  what  she  has  to  suffer,  even  the 
dangers  she  has  to  fear  ?  We  might  cite  astonishing,  incre- 
dible facts :  here,  the  passion  of  the  father,  rising  even  to 
crime,  attempting  to  frighten  a  virtuous  girl,  cutting  her  linen 
and  her  dresses,  even  burning  her  curtains !  There,  a  corrupt 
mother,  wishing  to  gain  time,  and  to  marry  her  son  as  late  as 
possible,  finds  it  convenient  to  amuse  and  detain  him  with  the 
ruin  of  a  poor  young  woman  of  no  consequence,  who  has 
neither  parents  nor  protector.  She  flatters,  caresses  the 
credulous  girl,  and,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  arranges 
opportunities  and  contrives  accidents.  On  the  other  hand,  I 
have  sometimes  seen  the  mistress  of  a  house  so  violent  and  so 
jealous,  making  the  life  of  the  unhappy  creature  so  bitter,  that 
from  the  excess  of  her  sufferings,  she  justly  sought  relief  under 
the  protection  of  the  husband. 


To  a  young  soul,  proud  and  pure,  and  courageous  against 
fate,  the  temptation  is  natural  to  escape  from  individual 
dependence  by  addressing  herself  to  the  community,  to  make 
the  public  her  protector,  and  to  believe  that  she  can  live  by 


The  Woman  of  Letters.  37 

the  fruits  of  her  own  thought.  Would  that  women  might 
here  make  their  revelations ;  one  only,  I  believe,  has  ven- 
tured to  do  so, — in  a  very  powerful  romance,  the  defect  of 
which  is,  that  it  is  so  short  that  the  situations  do  not  attain 
their  full  effect.  This  book  ( Uhe  fausse  Position)  appeared 
fifteen  years  ago,  and  disappeared  at  once.  It  is  the  exact 
itinerary,  the  guide-book  of  a  poor  literary  woman,  the  sche- 
dule of  the  tolls,  town-dues,  turnpike  rates,  admission  charges, 
etc.,  which  are  demanded  of  her  for  the  privilege  of  going 
anywhere ;  a  record  of  the  churlishness  and  vexation  her 
resistance  causes  all  about  her,  so  that  she  is  surrounded  with 
obstacles,  I  might  almost  say  with  murderous  obstacles. 

Did  you  ever  see  the  children  in  Provence  conspire  against 
an  insect  which  they  consider  dangerous?  They  arrange 
straws  or  dry  twigs  around  it,  and  then  light  them,  so  that  to 
whatever  side  the  poor  creature  turns,  it  encounters  the 
flame,  is  cruelly  burned,  and  falls  back  ;  it  repeats  this  several 
times,  and  persists  in  its  efforts  with  an  obstinate  courage,  but 
always  in  vain.  It  cannot  pass  that  circle  of  fire. 

You  see  the  same  thing  in  the  theatre.  An  energetic  and 
beautiful  woman,  very  strong  of  heart,  says  to  herself:  "In 
literature  I  must  submit  to  the  critics,  who  create  public 
opinion.  But  on  the  stage,  I  am  in  person  before  my  judge, 
the  public,  and  I  plead  my  own  cause.  I  do  not  need  that 
any  one  should  say :  '  She  has  talent !'  But  I  say :  '  See 
for  yourself!' " 

What  a  terrible  mistake !  The  crowd  decides  much  less 
by  what  it  sees,  than  by  what  somebody  affirms  to  be  the 
judgment  of  the  crowd.  The  audience  may  be  touched  by 
an  actress,  but  the  individual  hesitates  to  say  so.  Each  will 
wait,  fearing  the  ridicule  that  attaches  to  extravagant  enthu- 
siasm. The  authorized  censors,  those  professional  jesters, 
must  give  the  signal  for  admiration.  Then  the  public  breaks 
out,  and  dares  to  admire,  overstepping  indeed  all  that  the 
emotion  of  the  individual  would  have  allowed. 

But  merely  to  reach  this  day  of  judgment  for  which  she 


38  The  Woman  of  Letters. 

has  everything  to  fear,  how  disgraceful  the  preliminaries  ! 
What  interested,  suspicious,  indelicate  men,  have  the  sove- 
reignty of  her  fate ! 

By  what  wire-pulling  and  what  trials  hav^  debuts  been 
made  successful  ?  How  has  she  conciliated  those  who  intro- 
duce and  recommend  her — first,  the  manager,  to  whom  she  is 
presented ;  then  the  popular  author,  who  is  to  create  a  role  for 
her  ;  and  finally,  the  critics.  And  I  do  not  allude  here  to  the 
great  organs  of  the  press,  which  are  supposed  to  have  some 
respect  for  themselves,  but  to  the  most  obscure  and  insignifi- 
cant. It  is  enough  that  some 'green  employe,  who  passes 
his  life  in  an  office,  making  pens,  has  scribbled  a  few  satirical 
lines, — that  a  contemptible  journal  prints  them,  and  distri- 
butes them  between  the  acts.  Animated  and  encouraged  by 
the  first  applause,  the  artiste  reappears  on  the  stage,  full  of 
hope,  but  she  does  not  recognise  the  house.  The  charm  is 
broken,  the  audience  chilled ;  they  look  at  each  other  and 
smile. 

I  was  young  when  I  witnessed  a  very  impressive  scene,  at 
the  remembrance  of  which  I  am  still  indignant.  I  am  glad  to 
think  that  now-a-days  things  are  changed. 

At  the  house  of  one  of  these  terrible  critics,  with  whom  I 
was  acquainted,  I  saw  a  slight  girl  enter,  very  simply  clad, 
with  a  sweet  and  winning  countenance,  but  already  wearied 
and  a  little  faded.  She  said,  to  the  point,  that  she  had  come 
to  ask  a  favor,  to  beg  him  at  least  to  tell  her  why  he  did  not 
let  a  day  pass  without  attacking,  crushing  her.  He  replied 
boldly, — not  that  she  performed  poorly,  but  that  she  was  dis- 
courteous,— that  to  his  first  somewhat  favorable  article,  she 
should  have  responded  by  a  token  of  gratitude,  a  substantial 
souvenir.  "  Alas  !  Sir,  I  am  so  poor  !  I  earn  almost  nothing, 
and  I  must  support  my  mother." — "  What  of  that !  take  a 
lover." — "  But  I  am  not  pretty  ;  and,  besides,  I  am  sc 
wretched.  Only  lively  women  are  loved." — "  No,  you  cannot 
make  me  believe  that.  You  are  pretty,  Miss,  but  your 
temper  is  bad.  You  are  proud,  but  that  will  avail  you  no 


The  Woman  of  Letters.  39 

thing.     You  must  do  like  the  others,  and  take  a  lover."     He 
stuck  to  that. 


I  have  never  been  able  to  understand  how  a  man  could 
have  the  courage  to  hiss  a  woman.  The  individual  man  is  per- 
haps good  enough,  but  they  are  cruel  as  a  public.  This  is 
what  sometimes  occurs  in  a  provincial  town :  to  force  the 
manager  to  expend  more  than  he  is  able,  and  import  the  best 
talent,  they  every  night  kill  off  some  unfortunate  actress,  who, 
whatever  her  talent  may  be,  loses  her  wits  before  such  impla- 
cable animosity,  such  a  shameful  punishment.  She  wavers, 
stammers,  and  knows  not  what  she  is  saying  ;  then  she  weeps 
and  stands  mute,  with  imploring  eyes.  But  still  they  laugh, 
and  they  hiss.  So  she  becomes  indignant,  and  revolts  against 
such  barbarism.  But  then  the  tempest  grows  so  horrible  and 
ferocious,  that  she  prostrates  -herself  before  them,  and  prays 
for  pardon. 

Accursed  be  the  man  who  breaks  down  a  woman,  who  takes 
from  her  her  pride,  her  courage,  and  her  soul !  In  Unefausse 
Position  this  moment  is  indicated  so  tragically  and  truly,  that 
we  feel  it  is  nature  itself,  and  taken  from  the  life.  Camille, 
the  literary  woman,  ingeniously  surrounded  by  the  circle 
of  fire,  having  no  escape,  wished  but  to  die.  She  is  prevented 
only  by  an  unforeseen  chance,  an  inevitable,  imperious  chance, 
still  to  do  something  good.  Softened  by  charity,  she  loses  the 
strength  that  pride  had  lent  to  her  despair.  A  savior  comes 
to  her,  and  she  yields.  She  is  humbled,  disarmed  by  the 
great  dilemma  that  so  bothers  the  mystics  :  "  If  vice  is  a  sin, 
pride  is  a  greater  sin."  Suddenly  she,  who  had  carried  her 
head  so  high,  becomes  good,  docile,  and  obedient.  She  makes 
the  woman's  confession:  " I 'need  a  master — command,  direct 
me — I  will  do  whatever  you  will." 

Ah !  as  soon  as  she  is  a  woman  again,  as  soon  as  she  is  gen- 
tle, and  no  longer  proud,  all  is  kindly,  all  is  smooth.  The 


40  The  Woman  of  Letters. 

saints  are  pleased  that  she  is  humbled,  and  the  worldly  have 
good  hopes  of  her.  The  doors  of  literature  and  the  theatre 
are  opened  to  her,  all  strive  and  combine  for  her.  The  more 
dead  her  heart  is,  the  better  is  she  established  in  life.  Every- 
thing looks  well  again  ;  those  who  made  war  upon  the  artist, 
upon  the  laborious  and  independent  woman,  now  side  with 
f'ie  submissive  woman — and  henceforth  she  has  a  support. 


The  author  of  this  romance  tortures,  but  saves  the  heroine 
in  the  end.  In  her  heart  is  the  burning  tire  of  true  love.  She 
yields  and  subdues  her  spirit  before  she  is  degraded.  Few 
have  that  happiness;  most  have  suffered  too  much,  fallen 
too  low,  to  feel  so  vividly ;  they  submit  to  their  fate,  and  are 
slaves — fat  and  flourishing  slaves. 

Slaves  to  whom?  you  ask.  Slaves  to  that  uncertain  and 
unknown  being,  as  frivolous  as  he  is  irresponsible,  without 
consideration  or  pity.  His  name  ?  It  is  Nemo — the  name 
under  which  Ulysses  escaped  from  the  Cyclop.  Here,  it  is  the 
Cyclop  himself,  the  devouring  Minotaur.  It  is  nobody,  every- 
body. 

I  said  she  was  a  slave — more  miserably  a  slave  than  the 
planter's  negro,  or  the  registered  prostitute  in  the  gutter. 
How  so  ?  Because  these  wretched  sufferers  have  at  least  no 
anxieties,  they  fear  no  loss  of  work,  they  are  fed  by  their 
masters.  The  poor  camellia,  on  the  contrary,  is  sure  of 
nothing.  She  may  be  turned  adrift  any  day,  and  left  to  die 
of  hunger.  She  seems  gay  and  careless ;  it  is  her  trade  to 
smile  ;  so  she  smiles,  and  says  :  "  Starved  to-morrow,  perhaps, 
and  for  a  home  a  milestone  !  " 

Even  in  her  secret  thought,  she  tries  to  be  gay — afraid  of 
being  ill,  and  growing  thin.  It  is  atrocious  to  be  unable  to 
be  sad ;  but  she  well  knows  that  notwithstanding  the  some- 
what ironical  regard  her  friends  express  for  her,  they  would 
never  forgive  her  a  day  of  languor,  or  the  least  alteration 


The  Woman  of  Letters.  41 

A  certain  hue  of  suffering,  a  slight  sickly  paleness,  which 
would  embellish  the  fine  lady  and  make  her  lover  mad  for  her, 
is  the  ruin  of  the  dame  au  camellia.  She  is  bound  to  be 
brilliantly  fresh,  or  glowing  rather.  There  is  no  let-up  foi 
her. 

A  very  excellent  physician,  whom  one  of  these  had  called 
in,  as  he  was  passing  through  her  street,  a  week  afterwards, 
with  no  other  motive  than  pity,  went  in  to  ask  how  she  was.. 
"You  see  I  am  always  alone,"  said  she.  "He  scarcely  comes 
once  a  week.  If  I  happen  to  be  suffering  on  that  day,  he 
says :  '  Good  night,  I  am  going  to  the  ball '  (that  is,  to  find  a 
woman),  dryly  leaving  me  to  understand  that  I  am  good  for 
nothing,  that  I  do  not  earn  my  bread." 

The  manner  in  which  the  relation  is  annulled  is  the  worst 
of  it.  M.  Bouilhet,  in  his  fine  drama  of  Helene  Peyron,  has 
put  on  the  stage  what  may  be  seen  daily.  Her  gentleman 
does  not  like  to  fling  the  bargain  in  her  face  exactly ;  but  it 
is  so  arranged  that  the  abandoned  girl,  without  a  resource  for 
the  morrow  perhaps,  too  credulously  accepts  the  suit  of 
a  perfidious  friend,  who  of  course  tells,  and  so  the  lover  is 
free  to  accuse  her  of  betraying  him. 


In  an  immortal  poem,  of  inexpressible  tenderness,  Virgil 
has  described  the  bitterness,  the  fathomless  sea  of  sorrows, 
into  which  the  lover  of  Lycoris  was  plunged.  Those  servile 
courtesans,  whom  an  avaricious  master  hired  and  sold,  have 
drawn  heart-rending  verses  from  the  unfortunate  muse  of 
Propertius,  Tibullus,  and  their  successors.  They  were 
instructed,  graceful,  and  true  ladies,  more  like  our  dame  au 
camellia  than  the  Manon  Lescauts  of  the  old  regime — so 
naively  corrupt,  a  simple  source  of  pleasure,  who  felt  nothing 
and  knew  nothing. 

There  is  very  great  danger  here  ;  the  surest  way  is  to 
keep  far  away  from  it.  One  day,  one  of  my  friends,  a  distiu- 


42          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

guished  thinker,  charitable  enough,  but  with  the  manners  of 
the  time,  told  me  that  by  such  light  relations,  of  no  conse 
quence,  by  avoiding  any  serious  engagement,  he  had  been 
able  to  reserve  himself  for  study,  and  solitary  intellectual 
exercise.  I  said  to  him :  "  What !  you  think  that  of  no  con- 
sequence? ....  Is  it  not  rather  a  great  peril?  By  what 
philosophic  effort  of  forgetfulness  and  abstraction  can  you  see 
an  unfortunate  girl  thus  crushed  by  misery,  by  treachery 
perhaps,  without  having  your  heart  torn  by  her  horrible  lot  ? 
And  if  this  poor  creature,  a  plaything  of  fate,  should  happen 
to  win  your  heart,  you  would  be  lost !" — "  I !"  said  he,  smiling 
(but  with  so  sad  a  smile),  "that  cannot  be.  My  parents  pro- 
vided against  that ;  they  fastened  the  door  that  leads  to  the 
great  folly.  Before  I  knew  I  had  a  heart,  they  rid  me  of  it. 
They  killed  all  love  in  me." 

This  funereal  remark  made  me  shudder.  I  thought  of  the 
saying  of  the  sophistical  emperor,  on  the  last  day  of  the 
Roman  empire :  "  Love  is  a  convulsion."  Next  day  every- 
thing crumbled,  not  by  the  invasion  of  barbarians,  but  by  that 
of  celibacy  and  premature  death. 


IV. 

NO    LIFE    FOR   WOMAN   WITHOUT    MAN. 

AN  ever  laborious  life  enriches  us,  as  we  advance,  with  new 
ideas,  before  unknown  to  us.  Very  lately,  only  last  winter 
(1858-59),  I  found  in  my  heart  the  meaning  of  little  children. 
I  have  always  loved  them,  but  I  did  not  understand  them. 
I  will  hereafter  relate  the  charming  revelation  I  had  from  a 
German  lady ;  to  her,  certainly,  belongs  the  best  of  what  is 
contained  in  my  first  chapters  on  education,  to  which  you  will 
come  presently. 

In  entering  upon  this  branch  of  study,  I  believe  it  necessary 


No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man.          43 

first  to  understand  the  child's  anatomy.  My  friend,  Dr. 
Beraud,  Hospital  Surgeon,  and  ex-demonstrator  at  Clamart 
(still  a  young  man,  but  well  known  by  the  fine  treatise  on 
physiology,  in  which  he  is  the  author-colleague  of  our  illus- 
trious Rolin),  wished  to  dissect  several  children  before  my 
eyes,  in  his  cabinet  at  Clamart.  He  wisely  reminded  me  that 
the  study  of  the  child  is  usefully  illustrated  by  that  of  the 
adult.  Thus,  under  his  auspices,  I  was  launched  into  anatomy, 
with  which  I  was  previously  familiar  only  through  plates. 

An  admirable  study,  because,  independently  of  its  many 
practical  advantages,  it  is  fundamentally  highly  moral;  it 
tempers  the  character — we  are  men  only  by  the  firm  eye  we 
keep  on  life  and  death.  And,  what  is  not  less  true,  although 
less  known,  is  that  it  humanizes  the  heart,  not  by  feminine 
sensibility,  but  by  informing  us  of  the  many  natural  offices  we 
owe  to  humanity.  An  eminent  anatomist  said  to  me  :  "  It  is 
very  painful  to  me  to  see  a  water-carrier  under  her  weight 
of  buckets  which  overburden  her  and  cut  her  shoulders.  If 
people  only  knew  how  delicate  these  muscles  are  in  women, 
how  weak  the  nerves  of  motion,  how  tender  the  nerves  of 
sensation !" 

My  own  impression  was  analogous  to  that,  when,  after 
observing  the  organization  which  renders  the  child  a  being 
fatally  alive,  on  whom  nature  imposes  the  need  of  constant 
change,  I  thought  of  the  inferno  of  immobility  his  school  life 
inflicts  on  him.  So  much  the  better  did  I  like  the  good 
German  method  (children's  workshops  and  gardens),  in  which 
the  teacher  provides  just  what  nature  calls  for,  that  is,  motion 
— developing  that  creative  activity  which  is  the  true  genius  of 
man. 

As  long  as  you  have  not  seen  and  touched  these  realities, 
you  hesitate  about  all  this,  you  debate,  and  lose  time  in  listen* 
ing  to  praters.  Dissect,  and,  in  a  moment,  you  will  understand 
and  feel  it  all.  It  is  death  which  most  of  all  teaches  you  to 
respect  life,  to  economize,  and  not  overwork  the  human 
race. 


44          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

If  I  could  doubt  the  moral  influence  of  anatomy,  it  would 
be  enough  for  me  to  remember  that  the  best  men  I  have 
known  were  great  physicians.  At  the  very  time  when  I 
was  studying  at  Clamart,  I  saw  there  a  celebrated  English 
surgeon,  who,  at  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-four  years,  crosses 
the  sea  every  year  to  visit  this  scientific  capital,  and  inform 
himself  of  the  happy  novelties  which  its  inventive  genius  con- 
stantly discovers  for  the  solace  of  humanity.  I  was  especially 
interested  in  the  anatomy  of  the  brain.  I  studied  a  great 
number  of  them,  of  both  sexes,  of  every  age,  and  was  sur- 
prised to  see  how  naively  the  lower  side  of  the  brain  answers, 
in  its  physiognomy,  to  the  expression  of  the  countenance.  I 
speak  of  the  lower  and  not  the  upper  part,  which  is  covered 
with  veins,  a  circumstance  to  which  Gall  evidently  attached 
too  much  importance.  It  is  far  from  the  bony  box,  but  at 
the  large  bases  of  the  brain,  full  of  arteries,  rising  into  more 
or  less  rich  volutes,  according  to  the  development  of  intel- 
ligence, that  the  character  reveals  itself  even  as  in  the 
face.  The  latter,  a  coarse  surface,  exposed  to  the  air,  and  a 
thousand  shocks,  deformed  by  grimaces,  would  speak,  if  there 
were  no  eyes,  much  less  clearly  than  this  interior  face,  so 
well-guarded,  so  delicate,  so  marvellously  shaded. 

In  common  women  who  were  known  to  have  had  coarse  occu- 
pations, the  brain  was  very  simple  in  form,  as  though  in  a  rudi- 
mentary state.  These  would  have  exposed  me  to  the  grave 
error  of  concluding  that  women  in  general,  in  this  essential 
centre  of  the  organization,  are  inferior  to  men.  Happily  other 
feminine  brains  disabused  me — especially  that  of  a  woman 
who,  presenting  a  singular  case  in  a  pathological  respect, 
obliged  M.  Beraud  to  inform  himself  of  her  malady  and  her 
antecedents.  Here,  then,  I  had  what  was  wanting  in  the 
other  cases — the  history  of  a  life  and  a  destiny. 

This  remarkably  rare  singularity  was  a  stone  of  considera- 
ble size  found  in  the  womb.  This  organ,  now  so  ordinarily 
affected,  but  in  no  other  case  perhaps  to  such  a  degree,  revealed 
a  very  extraordinary  state.  That  in  the  sanctuary  of  generat- 


No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man.          45 

ing  life  and  fruitfulness — should  be  found  this  cruel  destroyer, 
this  desperate  atrophy,  an  Arabia  Deserta  I  may  say,  a  flint — 
that  the  unfortunate  one  should  have  been,  as  it  were,  changed 
into  stone — immersed  me  in  an  ocean  of  sombre  thoughts. 

Nevertheless  the  other  organs  were  not  changed  as  much  as 
one  might  have  supposed.  The  head  was  very  expressive.  If 
the  brain  was  not  as  large,  strong,  puissant,  as  those  of  some 
men  I  had  studied,  it  was  as  varied,  as  rich  in  convolutions — 
little  wavy  volutes,  marked  by  an  infinite  detail,  lately  occupied, 
I  felt,  by  a  crowd  of  ideas  and  delicate  shades,  a  world  of  wo- 
man's dreams.  All  had  a  story  to  tell,  and  as  I  had  had 
under  my  eyes  a  moment  before  brains  of  little  expression — 
dumb,  I  was  going  to  say — this  at  the  first  glance  made  me 
understand  hs  language.  As  I  approached  it  I  seemed  still 
to  hear  through  my  eyes  the  echo  of  its  sighs. 

The  hands,  soft  and  rather  delicate,  were  however  not  ele- 
gantly elongated  like  those  of  the  idle  lady.  They  were 
moderately  short,  made  for  use.  She  had  doubtless  held  little 
objects,  which  do  not  deform  the  hand  but  curb  its  growth. 
She  must  have  been  a  working  girl — in  linen  materials,  per- 
haps, or  flowers.  That  was  the  natural  conjecture.  She 
may  have  been  twenty-eight  years  of  age.  Her  eyes  of  a 
blueish  grey,  surmounted  by  rather  heavy  black  eyebrows, 
and  the  peculiar  quality  of  her  complexion,  revealed  a  woman 
of  the  West,  neither  Norman  nor  Breton,  but  of  an  interme- 
diate region,  and  yet  not  of  the  South. 

The  countenance  was  severe,  if  not  proud.  The  highly 
arched  but  not  elliptical  eyebrows  indicated  a  worthy  and 
undegraded  person,  who  had  preserved  her  purity,  and  strug- 
gled on  even  to  the  death. 

The  body,  already  opened  at  the  hospital,  showed  that  an 
inflammation  of  the  breast  had  carried  her  off.  She  had  died 
on  the  21st  of  March,  within  twelve  days  of  Shrove-Tuesday. 
We  were  tempted  to  believe  she  was  one  of  the  numerous 
victims  of  the  balls  of  that  season — a  cruel  season,  which  sud- 
denly crowds  the  hospitals,  and  presently  the  cemeteries.  It 


4.6          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

might  justly  be  called  the  feast  of  the  Minotaur.  For  how 
many  women  does  it  not  devour  alive  ? 

When  we  think  of  the  mortal  ennui,  the  profound  mono- 
tony, the  disinherited,  dry,  and  empty  life  the  operative 
leads,  especially  the  seamstress,  with  her  eternal  dry  bread, 
alone  in  her  cold  attic,  we  are  but  little  astonished  if  she 
yields  to  the  young  fool  at  her  side,  or  to  some  older  and  more 
calculating  fiend.  But  what  always  gives  me  a  painful  twinge 
is,  that  he  who  seduces  her  has  so  little  heart,  that  he  affords  so 
little  protection  to  the  poor  giddy  girl,  nor  cares  to  know  (he 
so  warmly  robed  with  cloaks)  whether  she  returns  clothed, 
whether  she  has  fire  and  other  necessaries,  even  anything  to 
eat  to-morrow.  Alas !  to  cast  forth  into  the  frozen  night  the 
unfortunate,  whose  last  caresses  you  have  just  enjoyed. 
Savages  !  you  pretend  there  is  only  levity  in  all  this.  Not  so. 
It  is  deliberate ;  you  are  cruel  and  avaricious ;  you  fear  to 
know  too  much  about  it;  you  prefer  to  be  ignorant  of  the 
consequences,  whether  life  or  death. 

To  return;  in  spite  of  the  season,  I  doubted,  from  the 
countenance  of  this  woman,  that  she  was  an  etudiante,  a 
habituee  of  those  balls.  That  world  is  easily  known.  She 
would  never  have  succeeded  in  it.  Her  severely  cut  nose, 
her  firm  chin,  her  delicate  and  precise  lips,  her  certain  air 
of  reserve,  would  have  made  her  too  much  respected  there. 

The  final  inquest  proved  that  I  had  judged  rightly.  She 
was  a  provincial  girl,  of  a  trading  bourgeois  family,  who,  in 
a  city  peopled  for  the  most  part  by  bachelors  and  clerks,  had 
been  unable,  in  spite  of  her  natural  goodness,  to  defend  her- 
self against  infinite  assaults,  a  pursuit  every  hour.  Under 
promise  of  marriage  she  had  loved,  and  had  a  child.  De- 
ceived, with  no  other  resource  than  her  fingers  and  needle, 
she  had  left  her  native  city,  in  which,  of  all  France,  women 
are  the  least  embarrassed,  for  they  there  earn  whatever  they 
are  equal  to.  She  preferred  to  come  and  hide  herself  in 
Paris,  and  die  of  hunger.  She  brought  her  child  with  her,  a 
grave  obstacle;  she  could  be  neither  chambermaid  nor  shop- 


No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man.          47 

girl,  and  sewing  yielded  her  nothing.  She  tried  to  iron,  but 
in  sickly  condition,  aggravated  by  grief,  charcoal  fumes  pro- 
duced cruel  headaches,  and  she  could  not  stand  all  day  with- 
out the  greatest  pain.  Her  sister-workers  knew  nothing 
of  that,  and  thought  her  lazy ;  the  Parisian  women  are  full 
of  ridicule,  and  they  did  not  spare  the  poor  provincial; 
nevertheless,  out  of  their  good  hearts  they  lent  her  money 
in  her  trouble. 

Her  sad  robes  of  faded  calico,  which  I  have  seen,  showed 
that  in  her  extreme  misery  she  did  not  have  recourse  to  what 
remained  of  her  beauty.  Such  a  garment  makes  one  old,  it 
left  no  chance  of  guessing  how  young  and  perfect  her  person 
still  was.  Sorrow  and  misery  make  one  gaunt,  but  they  do 
not  wither,  like  excesses  and  enjoyments,  and  she,  very  plainly, 
had  had  little  to  do  with  the  joys  of  life. 

The  mistress  who  employed  her  to  iron  had  charitably 
allowed  her  to  sleep  in  a  great  loft,  which  served  as  a  work- 
shop— a  place  strongly  impregnated  by  vapors  of  charcoal, 
and  which,  moreover,  had  to  be  cleared  in  the  morning  for 
work.  However  she  might  suffer,  she  could  not  remain  in 
bed,  not  for  one  day.  The  other  women  arrived  early,  and 
ridiculed  her  as  an  idler,  and  a  good-for-nothing. 

On  the  first  of  March  she  was  worse ;  had  some  fever,  and  a 
slight  cough.  That  would  have  been  nothing  if  she  had  only 
had  a  home,  but  not  having  one,  she  was  obliged  to  leave 
her  little  girl  to  the  kindness  of  the  mistress  to  go  to  the 
hospital. 

She  was  received  into  one  of  our  large  old  hospitals,  where 
at  that  time  there  were  many  cases  of  typhoid  fever.     The  N^ 
skilful  physician  at  once  perceived  that  her  fever  would  assume    ) 
that  character.     She  was  asked  if  her  general  health  was  good.  ^ 
She  said,  modestly,    "Yes;"    concealing  her   short   internal 
pangs,  and  dreading  a  painful  examination. 

In  those  great  halls  wherein  so  much  of  suffering  is  gathered, 
where  agony  and  death  surround  each  patient,  the  gloom  often 
increases  the  malady.  Relatives  are  admitted  on  certain  days, 


48          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

but  how  many  have  no  relatives;  how  many  die  alone! 
She  was  visited  once  by  her  kind  mistress ;  but  the  good  wo- 
man was  frightened  by  the  typhoid  fever,  and  did  not  return. 

The  necessary  ventilation  is  stilt,  as  formerly,  procured  by 
means  of  huge  windows,  and  great  currents  of  air.  The  need 
of  a  better  plan  is  now  seriously  agitated.  These  currents 
chill  the  patients,  who  are  but  slightly  protected  by  their 
curtains;  and  so  her  slight  cough  became,  first,  a  violent 
bronchitis,  and  then  an  inflammation  of  the  lungs.  Exhausted 
by  weak  nourishment  long  continued,  she  had  not  the  strength 
to  react.  She  was  well  taken  care  of,  but  she  died  in  three 
weeks. 

Her  little  daughter  (a  charming  child,  already  full  of  intel- 
ligence) was  sent  to  the  Enfants  trouves. 

Her  body,  unclaimed,  was  removed  to  Clamart,  and,  I  ven- 
ture to  say,  very  usefully,  since  it  has  instructed  science  on 
a  point  from  which  fruitful  inferences  may  be  drawn.  This 
simple  recital  will  also  have  been  useful  if  it  strongly  com- 
mands the  attention  of  benevolent  minds.  Woman  dies  if 
she  has  no  hearth  and  no  protection.  If  this  person  had  only 
had  a  shelter,  a  bed  for  one  week,  her  illness  would  have 
passed  away,  in  all  probability,  and  she  would  still  be  alive. 


She  should  have  enjoyed  for  a  time  the  hospitality  of  a 
woman.  How  easy  it  would  often  be  for  an  intelligent  lady, 
at  certain  critical  times,  to  save  a  creature  whom  misfortune 
has  thus  engulfed.  Suppose  such  a  lady,  traversing  a  public 
garden,  near  the  hospital,  had  seen  her  seated  on  a  bank,  with 
her  little  parcel,  resting  for  a  moment,  before  entering,  after 
her  long  journey.  The  lady,  seeing  her  so  pale,  and  struck 
with  her  excellent  countenance,  which  has  an  almost  distin- 
guished expression,  in  spite  of  the  extreme  poverty  of  her  dress, 
takes  a  seat  by  her  side,  and  draws  her  into  conversation. 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you,  young  lady?"     "I  have  a 


No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man.  49 

fever,  madam — I  am  quite  ill."  "  Let  me  see.  I  understand 
fevers.  Oh,  it  is  a  trifle  yet.  At  present,  the  prevailing 
epidemic  abounds  in  the  hospitals.  You  would  be  very  likely 
to  catch  it.  A  little  quinine  would  probably  set  you  on  your 
feet  again  in  a  couple  of  days.  I  shall  have  plenty  of  ironing 
to  do.  For  these  two  days,  at  least,  come  to  my  house ; 
when  you  are  well  again,  you  shall  have  my  work."  That 
would  have  saved  her  life. 

Two  days  would  not  have  done  it ;  but  in  a  week  she  would 
have  been  restored.  The  lady  appreciating  the  good  charac- 
ter, so  plain  in  her  countenance,  would  doubtless  have  kept 
her  longer.  Partly  servant,  partly  young  lady,  better  clad, 
beautified  again  by  a  few  months  of  happier  life,  she  would 
have  touched  many  hearts  with  her  pensive  grace.  The  mis- 
fortune of  having  been  deceived,  and  of  possessing  that  pretty 
child,  redeemed  by  her  prudent  conduct,  her  economical  and 
industrious  habits,  would  scarcely  have  checked  the  love  of 
those  around  her.  I  have  several  times  had  occasion  to  ob- 
serve the  tender  and  generous  magnanimity  of  worthy  work- 
men in  this  kind  of  adoption.  I  have  known  one  such  admi- 
rable household.  The  woman  loved,  I  dare  say  adored,  her 
husband;  and  the  child,  by  a  mysterious  instinct,  attached 
itself  to  him  even  more  than  to  a  father :  he  always  left  it 
weeping,  and,  if  he  was  late,  it  wept  for  his  return. 

We  too  easily  imagine  that  a  person  is  irremediably  ruined. 
In  our  good  old  France  they  did  not  use  to  think  so.  For 
example,  every  woman  who  emigrated  to  Canada,  was  re- 
garded as  purified  of  every  fault  and  misfortune  by  the  bap- 
tism of  the  sea.  This  was  no  vain  notion ;  for  they  clearly 
proved  the  justice  of  it,  and  became  admirable  wives  and 
excellent  mothers. 

But  the  best  of  all  emigrations  for  those,  who,  while  yet 
scarcely  more  than  children,  have  been  cast  by  chance  upon  a 
frivolous  life,  is  to  rise  courageously  by  labor  and  privations. 
So  one  of  our  first  thinkers  insisted,  in  a  severe  letter  he  wrote 
to  one  of  our  poor  Amazons,  brilliant  and  wretched,  who  asked 

3 


50          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

him  how  she  might  escape  from  the  gulf  before  her.  The 
letter,  very  harsh  in  expression,  but  in  spirit  very  kind  and 
wise,  told  her  that  she  could  expiate  her  guilt  by  misery, 
refine  herself  by  labor  and  accepted  suffering,  and  become 
worthy  and  pure  again.  He  was  quite  right ;  the  soul  of  a 
woman,  much  more  mobile,  more  fluid-like,  than  that  of  a 
man,  is  never  profoundly  corrupted.  When  once  she  has 
seriously  resolved  to  return  to  virtue,  when  she  once  has  fairly 
begun  to  live  by  struggles,  sacrifices,  and  reflection,  she  is 
already  regenerate.  She  is  like  the  stream,  which  was  turbid 
yesterday,  but  fresh  waters  have  come  in,  and  it  is  clear  to- 
day. If  the  woman,  thus  changed,  forgetting  the  bad  dream 
of  her  involuntary  sins,  in  which  her  heart  was  never  involved, 
succeeds  in  finding  that  heart  again,  if  once  she  loves — all  is 
well.  The  best  man  in  the  world  may  find  happiness  in  her, 
and  be  honored  by  her  still. 


I  intended  to  add  nothing  to  this  mournful  story.  My 
friends  were  affected,  and  rose.  But  with  a  word  I  recalled 
them  to  what  had  preceded  it : 

My  dear  sirs,  the  reason  for  which  you  will  marry,  the 
strongest  motive  for  your  hearts,  is,  as  I  told  you,  that : 

Woman  cannot  live  without  man.         • 

No  more  than  the  child  without  woman.  All  foundlings 
die;  and  does  man  live  without  woman?  You  yourselves 
have  just  said:  Your  life  is  sombre  and  bitter.  In  the 
midst  of  amusements  and  vain  feminine  shadows,  you  possess 
neither  wife,  nor  happiness,  nor  repose.  You  have  not  the 
sure  foundation,  the  harmonious  equilibrium,  so  favorable  to 
productiveness. 

Nature  has  bound  up  life  within  a  triple  and  absolute  tie : 
man,  woman,  and  child.  Separately,  they  are  sure  to  perish, 
and  are  only  saved  together. 

All  the  disputes  about  the  two  sexes,  and  their  opposing 


No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man.          51 

peculiarities,  go  for  nothing ;  we  should  put  an  end  to  them ; 
we  must  not  imitate  Italy,  Poland,  Ireland,  and  Spain,  where 
the  weakening  of  family  ties,  and  solitary  egotisms,  have  con- 
tributed so  much  to  destroy  the  State.  In  the  only  book  of 
the  age  that  contains  a  great  poetic  conception  (the  poem  of 
the  Last  Man),  the  author  supposes  the  earth  exhausted  and 
the  world  about  to  corne  to  an  end.  But  there  is  one  sublime 
obstacle : 

The  world  cannot  come  to  an  end  while  one  man  still 
loves. 

Have  pity  on  this  weary  earth,  which,  without  love,  would 
no  longer  have  a  reason  for  living.  Love  somebody ;  for  the 
salvation  of  the  globe. 


If  I  have  rightly  understood  you,  you  would  gladly  love, 
but  apprehensions  restrain  you.  Frankly,  you  are  afraid 
of  women.  If  woman  were  only  a  thing,  as  once  she  was, 
you  would  marry.  But  in  that  case,  my  dear  friends, 
there  would  be  no  marriage ;  for  marriage  is  a  union  of  two 
persons;  and  is  therefore  just  beginning  to  be  possible, 
because  woman  to-day  is  a  person  and  a  soul. 

But  seriously,  are  you  men  ?  Shall  the  power  you  now 
exercise  over  nature  by  your  irresistible  inventions — shall 
that  fail  you?  Shall  the  single  being,  who  sums  up  all 
nature,  and  is  all  happiness,  be  beyond  your  reach?  By 
your  science  you  attain  the  sparkling  beauties  of  the  milky 
way;  is  it  because  the  sparkling  beauties  of  earth,  more 
independent  of  you,  send  you  back  (as  the  Venetian  girl  sent 
Rousseau)  to  mathematics  f 

Your  grave  objection,  about  the  opposition  of  faiths,  and 
the  difficulty  of  bringing  women  to  your  own,  does  not  seem 
very  strong  to  the  man  who  looks  at  the  difficulty  coolly  and 
practicably. 

Fusion  will  be  completely  effected  only  by  two  marriages, 
two  successive  generations. 


52          No  Life  for  Woman  without  Man. 

The  true  woman  for  a  wife  is  she  whose  portrait  I  have 
painted  in  my  Book  of  Love — she  who,  simple  and  loving,  hav- 
ing as  yet  received  no  definite  impress,  shall  least  repel  the 
modern  thought,  shall  ngt  beforehand  be  an  enemy  to  science 
and  to  truth.  I  prefer  that  she  should  be  poor,  and  isolated, 
with  few  family  connexions — her  position  and  education  are 
secondary  matters.  Every  French  woman  is  born  a  queen 
or  is  on  the  point  of  becoming  so. 

As  a  wife,  the  simple  woman,  who  can  be  somewhat 
instructed,  and  as  a  daughter,  the  confiding  woman,  who  can 
at  once  be  taught  by  her  father :  these  will  break  that  vicious 
circle  in  which  we  revolve,  in  which  woman  prevents  us  from 
creating  women. 

With  so  excellent  a  wife,  sharing,  in  heart  at  least,  the 
faith  of  her  husband,  the  latter,  'following  the  very  easy  path 
of  nature,  will  maintain  over  the  child  an  incredible  ascendency 
of  authority  and  tenderness.  The  daughter  does  so  trust  in 
her  father !  He  may  make  of  her  what  he  will.  The  strength 
of  this  second  love,  so  lofty  and  so  pure,  will  create  in  her  the 
woman,  the  adorable  ideal  of  grace  and  wisdom,  by  which 
alone  family  and  society  are  to  be  restored  in  the  future. 


PART    I . — E  D  u  c  A  T i o  N  . 


I. 

SUN,  AIR,  AND  LIGHT. 

AN  eminent  observer  affirms  that  numerous  microscopic 
beings,  which  in  the  shade  remain  vegetables,  assume  a  higher 
character  in  the  sun,  and  become  veritable  animals.  The  fact 
is  certain,  indisputable,  and  accepted  by  everybody,  that, 
deprived  of  light,  every  animal  merely  vegetates ;  that  a 
plant  can  scarcely  blossom,  and  that  its  flower  is  pale,  lan- 
guishing, abortive,  and  short-lived. 

The  human  flower,  more  than  all  others,  craves  for  the  sun  ; 
the  sun  is  its  first  and  supreme  initiator  into  life.  Compare 
the  child  a  day  old,  that  has  known  only  darkness,  with  the 
child  a  year  old  :  the  difference  is  enormous  between  the  son 
of  shadow  and  the  son  of  light.  The  brain  of  the  latter,  as 
compared  with  that  of  the  former,  presents  the  palpable 
miracle  of  a  complete  transfiguration.  We  are  not  surprised 
to  perceive  that  in  it  the  apparatus  of  vision  occupies  more 
space  than  the  organs  of  all  the  other  senses  combined. 
Light  inundates  the  head,  traverses  it  through  and  through, 
even  to  the  deep,  recondite  nerves,  whence  proceed  the  spinal 
marrow,  and  the  whole  nervous  system,  the  complete  mecha- 
nism of  sensation  and  motion.  Even  above  the  optical  con- 


54  Sun,  Air,  and  Light. 

duits  in  which  the  light  circulates,  the  central  mass  of  the 
brain  (the  radiant  crown)  seems  also  to  be  penetrated  by  it, 
and  doubtless  receives  its  rays. 

So  the  first  duty  of  love  is  to  bestow  on  the  child,  and  the 
young  mother  also,  who  was  only  yesterday  a  child,  shattered 
by  the  accouchement,  wearied  with  nursing,  plenty  of  light 
and  salubrious  air.  Grant  her  the  blessing  of  "  a  good  ex- 
posure," that  the  sun  may  cheer  her  with  his  first  rays,  loving 
and  regarding  her  long,  revolving  around  her  at  mid-day, 
even  at  two  o'clock,  still  warming  and  illuminating  her,  and 
leaving  her  only  with  regret. 

Leave  to  those  who  live  the  artificial  life  of  the  beau  monde 
the  splendors  of  apartments  turned  toward  the  Evening. 
Kings,  the  great  and  the  idle,  have  sought  for  sunsets  in 
their  Versailles,  to  glorify  their  fetes.  But  whoever  sanctifies 
life  by  labor,  whoever  loves  and  has  his  fetes  in  his  beloved 
wife  and  child,  lives  most  of  all  in  the  Morning.  To  himself 
he  secures  the  freshness  of  the  early  hours,  when  all  life  is 
energetic  and  productive.  To  them  he  gives  the  joy,  the  first 
flower  of  gaiety,  which  enchants  all  nature  in  the  happiness 
of  its  awakening. 

What  is  comparable  to  the  innocent  and  delightful  grace 
of  these  morning  scenes !  The  good  laborer  watching  for  the 
sun  sees  it  peep  through  the  curtains  to  admire  the  young 
mother,  and  the  child  in  the  cradle.  She  is  surprised,  and 
stretches  her  arms  ;  "  What !  so  late  !"  And  smiling,  says  : 
"Ah!  how  indolent  I  am!" — "But,  my  dear,  it  is  only  five 
o'clock.  The  child  has  kept  you  awake  a  great  deal.  Sleep, 
I  beg  you,  an  hour  longer."  She  does  not  need  to  be  urged, 
and  they  go  to  sleep  again. 

Let  us  close  the  curtains  doubly,  and  shut  fast  the  window- 
blind.  But  the  Day,  in  its  triumphant  and  rapid  march,  will 
not  be  excluded.  A  charming  combat  is  waging  between 
light  and  darkness ;  and  it  would  indeed  be  bad  if  the  night 
got  the  better  of  it.  What  a  picture  would  be  lost !  As 
she,  inclining  toward  the  child,  encircles  its  head  in  the  curve 


Sun,  Air,  and  Light.  $$ 

of  her  loving  arm.     A  gentle  ray  insinuates  itself.     So  be  it, 
leave  them  with  that  sacred  aureole  of  the  blessing  of  God ! 


I  have  spoken  in  one  of  my  books  of  a  strong  and  stur  iy 
tree  (a  chestnut,  I  believe),  which  I  saw  thriving  out  of  the 
earth,  on  air  alone.  We  suspend  in  vases  certain  elegant 
plants,  that  likewise  vegetate  with  no  element  but  the  atmo- 
sphere. Our  poor  peasants  resemble  these  only  too  nearly. 
What  compensates  them  for  their  imperfect  sustenance? 
What  enables  them,  so  poorly  nurtured,  to  endure  such  pro- 
tracted and  severe  labors  ?  The  perfection  of  the  air  in  which 
they  live,  and  the  power  it  affords  them  of  deriving  from 
their  food  all  the  nutrition  it  contains. 

Thou,  whose  happiness  it  is  to  rear  and  nurture  those  two 
trees  of  Paradise,  the  young  wife  who  lives  in  thee,  and  her 
child  which  is  thine  own — consider  well,  that  if  thou  wouldst 
have  her  live,  and  bloom,  and  give  good  milk  to  that  dear 
little  one,  thou  must  first  provide  her  with  the  aliment  of  all 
aliments,  vital  air.  What  a  misfortune,  how  sad  a  contradic- 
tion, to  expose  thy  pure,  chaste,  charming  wife  to  a  dangerous 
atmosphere  enough  to  poison  her  body  and  soul !  No,  not 
with  impunity  will  a  delicate,  impressionable,  and  penetrable 
woman  receive  the  horrible  melange,  of  a  hundred  vitiated, 
vicious  effluvia,  that  rises  from  the  street  to  her — the  breath 
of  unclean  spirits,  the  pell-mell  of  smokes,  vile  emanations, 
and  unhealthy  dreams  which  hover  over  our  sombre  cities. 

You  must  make  a  sacrifice,  my  friend,  and  at  any  price  take 
them  where  they  can  live.  If  possible,  go  out  of  town — you 
will  see  less  of  your  friends,  but  they  will  come  a  little  further 
to  see  you,  if  they  are  true  friends.  You  will  go  to  the  thea- 
tre but  little.  Its  pleasures  (agitating  and  enervating)  are  less 
to  be  desired  by  him  who  has,  on  his  own  loving  hearth,  his 
own  rejuvenating  joys,  his  own  "Divine  Comedy."  You  will 
lose  less  time  at  night,  gossiping  in  saloons;  and  for  your 
recompense,  you  will  have  in  the  morning  all  your  strength, 


56  Sun,  Air,  and  Light. 

not  wasted  in  vain  words,  but  fresh  and  tranquil,  to  put  into 
labor,  solid  works,  those  durable  results  which  shall  not  fly 
away. 

I  want  a  garden,  not  a  park :  a  little  garden.  Man  does 
not  easily  flourish  away  from  its  vegetal  harmonies.  All  the 
legends  of  the  East  place  the  commencement  of  Life  in  a  gar- 
den. A  pure  and  capable  people,  the  Persians,  believed  that 
the  world  began  in  a  garden  of  light. 

If  you  cannot  leave  town,  dwell  in  the  upper  stories  of  a 
house ;  more  desirable  than  the  first  floor,  the  fifth  or  sixth 
may  have  a  garden  on  the  roof;  at  all  events,  light  abounds 
there.  I  would  choose  for  your  young  pregnant  wife  a  vast 
and  splendid  prospect,  to  beguile  her  waiting  reveries,  during 
your  long  hours  of  absence.  I  would  prefer  that  the  eyes  of 
the  child,  when  it  is  first  carried  out  on  the  balcony,  should 
fall  on  monuments,  on  the  majestic  effects  of  the  Sun,  in  its 
course,  lending  to  them  at  different  hours  aspects  so  diverse. 
Where  a  view  of  mountains,  tall  shrubbery,  beautiful  forests,  is 
wanting,  we  receive  from  grand  edifices  (in  which  is  the  na- 
tional life,  the  history  of  the  country  in  stone)  early  emotions 
whose  traces  are  for  ever  ineffaceable.  Little  children  kno\v 
not  how  to  express  their  feelings,  but  their  souls  vibrate  to  the 
effects  of  architecture  so  transfigured.  Such  a  ray,  such  a 
flash  of  light,  falling  at  such  an  hour  on  a  temple,  will  remain 
for  ever  present  with  them. 

For  myself,  I  may  affirm  that  nothing  in  my  early  child- 
hood made  a  deeper  impression  on  me  than  the  Pantheon  as  I 
once  beheld  it  against  the  Sun.  It  was  in  the  morning.  The 
interior,  revealed  through  the  windows,  shone  like  a  mysteri- 
ous glory.  Between  the  light  columns  of  the  exquisite  Ionic 
temple,  so  grandly  springing  from  its  austere  and  sombre 
walls,  the  azure  air  circulated,  roseate  with  an  inexpressible 
gleaming.  I  was  enraptured,  fascinated,  impressed,  far  more 
than  I  have  since  been  even  by  very  great  events.  They 
have  passed  away,  but  that  vision  remains  luminous  for  me 
still. 


The  First  Exchange  of  Glances.  57 


II. 

THE    FIRST  EXCHANGE  OF  GLANCES,  AND  THE  BEGINNINGS 
OF    FAITH. 

THE  divine  rapture  of  the  first  maternal  glance,  the  ecstasy 
of  the  young  mother,  her  innocent  surprise  at  having  given 
birth  to  a  god,  her  religious  emotion  in  her  marvellous  dream, 
which  is  so  real  nevertheless, — all  this  may  be  seen  every  day, 
but  it  has  seemed  impossible  to  paint  it.  Correggio  has  beec 
able  to  grasp  it,  inspired  by  nature,  free  from  the  tradition, 
by  which,  in  his  day,  art  was  restrained  and  chilled. 

There  are  spectators  around  the  cradle,  and  still  the  scene 
is  solitary,  for  it  is  divided  between  her  and  Aew,  who  are 
the  same  person.  She  gazes  on  him,  moved  ;  from  her  to 
him,  from  him  to  her,  flashes  an  electric  light,  which  dazzles 
and  confounds  them  together.  Mother  and  child  are  one  in 
that  living  ray,  which  restores  their  primitive  and  natural 
unity. 

If  she  no  longer  has  the  happiness  of  containing  her  child 
palpitating  within  her  bosom,  she  is  compensated  by  the  fairy- 
like  enchantment  of  having  him  before  her,  under  her  eager 
eyes.  Reclining  over  him,  she  trembles.  Young  and  inno- 
cent, she  reveals,  by  the  naivest  signs,  her  joy  at  assimilating 
to  herself  by  love,  this  divine  fruit  of  her  own  being.  Lately 
he  was  nourished  by  her,  now  she  is  nourished  by  him, 
absorbs  him,  eats  and  drinks  him.  A  delightful  interchange 
of  life :  the  child  giving  and  receiving  it,  absorbing  the 
mother  in  her  turn,  like  milk,  and  heat,  and  light. 

A  great,  a  truly  great  revelation ;  no  idle  creation  of  art 
and  sensibility;  a  mere  gratification  for  the  heart  and  the 
eyes.  No  ;  it  is  an  act  of  faith,  a  mystery,  but  not  absurd ; 
the  serious  and  solid  foundation  of  religion  and  education,  on 
which  is  to  be  raised  the  whole  structure  of  human  life  ;  and 
the  mystery  is  this  : — 

3* 


58  The  First  Exchange  of  Glances. 

If  the  child  were  not  God,  if  the  relation  of  the  mother  to 
it  were  not  a  worship,  it  would  not  live.  It  is  so  fragile  a 
Doing,  that  it  could  never  be  reared  but  for  the  marvellous 
idolatry  of  the  mother,  which  deifies  it,  and  makes  it  full  of 
bliss  to  her  to  sacrifice  herself  for  its  sake.  In  her  eyes  it- 
is  good,  beautiful,  perfect ;  and  it  is  needless  to  add,  she 
beholds  in  it  her  ideal,  the  absolute  of  beauty  and  goodness, 
the  acme  of  perfection. 

What  painful  dismay  would  beset  her  if  some  gloomy 
thinker,  some  awkward  sophist,  should  dare  tell  her  that  "  the 
child  is  born  bad,  that  man  is  depraved  before  his  birth,"  and 
other  such  fine  philosophical  and  legendary  inventions.  But 
women  are  mild  and  patient ;  they  only  turn  a  deaf  ear.  If 
they  had  believed  that,  if  for  a  moment  they  had  seriously 
accepted  such  ideas,  all  would  soon  have  been  ended.  Uncer- 
tain and  discouraged,  they  would  not  have  put  their  whole 
life  into  a  cradle,  and  the  neglected  child  must  have  died. 
There  would  have  been  no  humanity ;  history  would  have 
come  to  an  end  at  its  very  commencement. 


As  soon  as  the  child  sees  the  light,  and  sees  itself  in  the 
maternal  eye,  it  reflects,  instinctively  returns  the  look  of 
love ;  and  from  that  moment  the  most  profound  and  sweetest 
mystery  of  life  has  been  accomplished  between  those  two. 

Will  time  add  to  it  ?  Can  the  beatitude  of  so  perfect  a 
marriage  be  increased  ?  On  one  condition  only,  perhaps ; 
namely,  that  both  have  understood  it,  so  that  the  child  will 
disengage  itself  from  the  divine  immobility  ;  will  act,  and  seek 
to  correspond  with  its  mother ;  will  go  to  her  with  all  its 
little  heart,  and  impulsively  give  itself  up  to  her. 

This  second  season  of  mutual  love  and  faith  forms  the  sub- 
ject of  a  rare  creation,  which  France  possesses  in  the  Louvre. 
The  painter,  Solari  (of  Milan),  survives  only  in  this  one  paint- 
ing— all  the  rest  have  perished.  He  had  lived  many  years* 


The  First  Exchange  of  Glances.  59 

among  us,  and  possessed  the  double  sense,  the  soul  of  the  two 
sister  nations.  How,  had  it  not  been  so,  could  he  have  ac- 
quired that  exquisite  expression  of  nervous  life,  and  its  deli- 
cate sensitiveness  ? 

In  this  there  is  no  magical  effect,  no  mysterious  contest 
between  light  and  darkness.  In  full  noon,  without  artificial 
accessories,  under  a  tree,  in  a  pleasant,  everyday  landscape, 
are  a  mother  and  her  child  ;  nothing  more.  Here  and  there 
the  crudity  of  its  tone  (the  effect  of  restorations)  offends  the 
eye,  but  why  is  the  heart  so  troubled  ? 

The  young  mother,  refined  and  pretty,  and  singularly  deli- 
cate, is  desirous  of  fulfilling  a  duty  far  beyond  her  strength. 
Not  that  her  breast  is  wanting  in  milk ;  it  is  beautiful  with 
plenitude,  with  visible  tenderness,  and  a  sweet  desire  to 
nurture.  But  so  frail  is  this  charming  person  that  we  ask 
ourselves  how  can  she  supply  that  beautiful  fountain,  but  at 
the  cost  of  her  own  life. 

Who  is  she  ?  An  Italian  flower,  swaying  with  slight  exhaus- 
tion ;  or  a  nervous  Frenchwoman  ?  I  would  quite  as  readily 
believe  the  latter.  The  race,  moreover,  is  much  less  ap- 
parent here  than  the  epoch,  which  is  that  of  cruel  wars  and 
miseries,  when  are  felt  and  expressed  the  touching  charm  that 
grief  imparts  to  grace,  those  smiles  of  suffering  women,  who 
make  excuses  for  their  suffering,  and  would  like  not  to  weep. 


The  handsome,  vigorous,  and  largely  developed  baby  over 
which  she  bends,  reposes  on  a  cushion;  she  could  scarcely  carry 
him — a  striking  disproportion,  which,  however,  has  no  mys- 
tical significance,  only  that  the  child  comes  of  a  great  race,  of  a 
father  who  doubtless  even  yet  belonged  to  the  heroic  times, 
while  the  young  mother,  suffering,  weak,  refined,  is  of  the 
period  of  Correggio's  "  Italy  :  "  a  last  drop  of  the  divine  elixir, 
under  the  pressure  of  grief. 

Observe  also   that  in  those   days,  the  mother,  although 


60  The  First  Exchange  of  Glances. 

poorly  nourished,  nurses  her  child  a  long  time;  the  more 
intelligent  he  grows,  the  sweeter  he  finds  this  indulgence, 
and  the  less  desire  he  has  to  renounce  it.  She  has  not  the 
strength  for  the  great  rupture ;  she  exhausts  herself,  is  aware 
of  it,  but  will  go  on  all  the  same,  as  long  as  she  has  a  drop. 
She  exhausts  herself  even  unto  death,  rather  than  grieve  hei 
child. 


This  picture  of  Solari  says  three  things  : 

Weak  as  she  is,  not  giving  of  her  abundance,  but  rather  what 
is  necessary  to  her  own  sustenance,  she  nevertheless  smiles, 
and  says  passionately :  "Drink,  my  child !  drink,  it  is  my  life." 

But  either  the  charming  child,  with  an  innocent  avidity, 
has  slightly  wounded  that  beautiful  bosom,  or  the  powerful 
suction  reaches  within  the  breast  and  rends  its  inner  fibres, 
for  she  has  suffered,  and  suffers  yet.  No  matter,  she  still 
says :  "  Enjoy,  drink,  it  is  my  pain." 

And  the  milk  which  rises,  swelling  and  expanding  the 
breast,  flows  forth ;  the  pain,  departing,  gives  place  to  a  sweet 
languor  which  is  not  without  its  charm,  like  that  of  the 
wounded  man  who  is  pleased  to  see  his  own  life  ebbing  away. 
But  here  there  is  real  happiness :  if  she  feels  herself  growing 
weaker,  she  grows  strong  in  him.  She  experiences  a  strange 
and  profound  shock  to  the  very  sources  of  her  being,  but 
says,  nevertheless,  "  Drink,  it  is  my  delight." 


Such  is  his  invincible  power  over  her  that,  whatever  may 
happen,  she  cannot  separate  herself  from  him,  and  the  result 
to  him  is  that,  understanding  her,  loving  her,  he  is,  both  in 
his  physical  life  and  in  his  young  heart,  bound  up  in  her. 
wholly  absorbed  in  her. 

His  love  is  calm  in  the  .innocence  of  his  age — not,  like  that 
of  his  mother,  sharpened  by  all  the  arrows  of  delight  and 


Play.— The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother.      61 

grief,  but  strong  in  its  great  unity.  If  he  could  speak,  he 
would  say :  "  Thou  alone  art  my  infinite,  my  absolute  and 
complete  world ;  there  is  nothing  in  me,  which  is  not  from 
thee,  which  does  not  wish  to  return  to  thee.  I  know  not 
whether  I  live  or  not,  but  I  am  sure  I  love ! " 

India  symbolizes  the  circle  of  perfect  and  divine  life  by  the 
attitude  of  a  god  holding  his  foot  in  his  hand,  concentrating 
himself,  and  forming  himself  into  a  sphere.  Little  children 
often  do  this;  and  thus  does  this  little  one,  invited  to  his 
mother's  bosom.  She  aids  him  to  come  to  her,  but  he  desires 
it  as  much  as  she,  and  does  what  he  can  toward  it.  By  a 
graceful  and  charming  movement,  and  a  natural  instinct,  the 
first  dawn  of  the  deliberate  impulse  of  tenderness,  he  makes 
a  powerful  effort,  and  contracts  his  whole  body  into  an  are  as 
complete  as  possible,  in  order  to  offer  himself  at  once,  and 
entire. 


III. 

PLAY. THE  CHILD  TEACHING  ITS  MOTHER. 

THERE  is  nothing  more  beautiful,  nothing  more  touching, 
than  the  embarrassment  of  a  young  mother,  a  novice  in  mater- 
nity, puzzled  how  to  handle  her  child,  to  amuse  it,  teach  it  to 
play,  and  enter  into  communication  with  it.  She  hardly 
knows  how  to  take  up  her  jewel,  the  adored  mysterious  being, 
the  living  enigma,  that  lies  there,  and  seems  to  wait  to  be 
moved,  and  have  its  desires  and  its  wants  divined.  She  ad- 
mires it,  moves  round  it,  trembles  at  the  thought  of  touching 
it  roughly,  and  makes  her  mother  hold  it.  Her  pretty  awk- 
wardness makes  the  old  nurse  smile ;  she  observes  it  in  silence, 
but  says  to  herself  that  the  young  mistress  is  none  the  less  a 
miss  for  having  had  a  child.  Virgins  are  maladroit:  grace 


62       Play.— The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother. 

and  skill  rarely  belong  to  her  who  is  not  a  complete  woman, 
already  made  pliant  by  love. 

Well,  madam,  since  indeed  you  are  now  a  madam — is  it  so 
many  years  since  you  were  a  little  girl  ?  At  fifteen,  if  I  recol- 
lect, under  the  pretext  of  trying  the  fashions,  you  were  still 
playing  with  dolls.  When  you  were  alone,  you  were  even 
wont  (confess  it  now)  to  kiss  and  rock  them.  Now  you  see 
the  living  doll,  which  asks  only  to  be  played  with.  Play  on 
then,  my  little  lady ;  nobody  will  look  at  you. 

"  But  I  do  not  dare.  With  this  one  I  am  afraid.  It  is  so 
delicate ;  if  I  touch  it,  it  cries ;  if  I  leave  it,  it  cries — I  tremble 
lest  I  break  it !" 


There  are  mothers  so  idolatrous,  so  lost  in  the  ecstasy  of 
this  contemplation,  that  they  would  pass  the  whole  day  on 
their  knees  before  the  child.  In  nursing  it,  gazing  at  it,  sing- 
ing to  it  some  little  nursery  song,  they  feel  themselves  united  to 
it,  and  desire  nothing  better.  But  this  is  not  enough ;  union 
consists  much  more  in  active  will,  in  concurrent  action.  If 
your  child  did  not  act  with  you,  would  you  ever  know  if 
it  loved  you?  It  is  play  which  will  create  between  you  a 
union  more  intimate  even  than  nursing,  and  have  all  the  effects 
of  a  mental  nursing. 

Form  its  young  soul,  its  thought,  its  will,  by  play.  In  it 
slumbers  an  individual ;  call  him  forth.  And  your  happi- 
ness will  be  that  this  soul  and  this  individual,  this  desire  and 
this  will,  shall  at  first  have  no  other  object  but  yourself.  The 
first  impulse  of  the  liberty  you  have  gained  for  him  will  be  to 
return  to  you.  Ah  !  how  wise  he  is  in  this !  How  gladly  do 
we  all,  after  pursuing  the  false  pleasures  of  the  world,  return 
to  the  maternal  paradise.  Proceeding  from  the  bosom  of 
woman,  our  only  heaven  here  below  is  there. 

"  I  should  certainly  be  very  happy  to  become  my  child's 
friend  and  companion;  but  what  shall  I  do?" 


Play. — The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother.      63 

Little  or  nothing,  my  dear,  but  follow  his  example.  Let 
us  observe  him.  Lay  him  gently  on  the  sunny  grass,  on  this 
flowery  carpet.  You  have  only  to  look  at  him ;  his  first  move- 
ments will  guide  you  ;  he  is  going  to  teach  you. 

His  movements,  his  cries,  his  at  first  powerless  attempts 
to  act,  the  little  playfulness  which  follows,  are  not  at  all 
arbitrary.  It  is  not  your  nurseling  only  that  you  see  here ; 
it  is  the  child  Humanity,  as  it  was  in  the  beginning.  "This 
first  activity,"  says  Froebel,  "  informs  us  of,  and  reproduces 
for  our  contemplation,  the  propensities,  ideas,  and  needs, 
which  first  belonged  to  the  human  race.  Some  uncongenial 
element  may  be  mingled  with  it,  perhaps,  in  our  modern  races, 
altered  by  a  factitious  society ;  but,  on  the  whole,  it  is  none 
the  less  a  very  grave  revelation  of  the  remote  past  of  hu- 
manity, and  of  its  instincts  for  the  future.  Play  is  a  magic 
mirror,  in  which  you  have  only  to  look,  to  learn  what  man 
was,  what  he  shall  be,  and  what  must  be  done  to  lead  him 
to  his  destiny." 

Let  us  at  once  derive  from  this  the  first  principle  of  edu- 
cation, which  contains  all  the  rest:  The  mother  teaches  the 
child  only  what  she  shall  first  have  been  taught  by  the  child. 
This  means,  that  from  him  she  derives  the  first  germs  of 
whatever  she  develops  in  him — that  in  the  child  she  first 
detects  a  glimmer,  which,  in  the  end,  with  her  assistance, 
shall  become  light. 

"Then  these  germs  are  good,"  she  says;  "these  gleams 
are  sacred.  Thanks !  Oh,  I  thought  so.  I  was  cruelly  told 
that  the  child  is  not  born  good.  I  never  could  believe  a  word 
of  that — I  felt  God  in  him  so  clearly!  Beautiful,  charm- 
ing counsel !  May  it  sink  into  my  heart ! — To  keep  my  eyes 
fixed  upon  him — to  make  him  my  rule  in  everything — to  wish 
nothing  but  what  he  wishes  !" 

Softly,  dear  little  one,  softly.  Let  us  first  see  if  he  is 
sure  that  he  does  wish,  knows  what  he  wishes.  Let  us 
see,  rather,  if,  overwhelmed  by  a  chaos  of  confused  things 
which  flow  in  upon  him  all  at  once,  he  does  not  await  your 


64      Play. — The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother. 

aid  to  choose  for  him,  to  enlighten  him  as  to  objects  of 
interest. 

Here  is  a  stroke  of  genius  by  the  good  Froebel ;  and  here 
truly,  by  force  of  simplicity,  he  has  discovered  what  the  wise 
had  vainly  sought,  the  mystery  of  education. 

Such  the  man,  and  such  the  doctrine.  This  German  pea- 
sant is  in  a  fair  way  to  become  an  accomplished  expert,  for 
he  possesses  a  singular  gift  of  childlikeness,  and  the  unique 
faculty  of  recalling  the  impressions  of  his  earliest  childhood. 
"  I  was,"  says  he,  "  enveloped  in  an  obscure  and  impenetrable 
mist.  To  see  nothing,  to  understand  nothing,  is  at  first  a  sort 
of  liberty ;  but  when  our  senses  transmit  to  us  so  many  images, 
so  many  sounds,  the  reality  oppresses  us.  A  world  of  things 
without  meaning,  without  order  or  succession,  come  to  us  all 
at  once,  and  without  allowance  for  our  feebleness  ;  we  are  asto- 
nished and  disturbed,  possessed  and  unduly  excited.  From 
so  many  ephemeral  impressions  weariness  alone  remains  to  us. 
It  is  a  relief,  a  happiness,  if  a  kind  providence  selects  from  the 
crowd  of  objects,  and  brings  frequently  before  us,  such  or 
such  that  are  easy  and  agreeable,  which  may  occupy  us  only 
to  refresh  us  and  deliver  us  from  that  Babel." 

Thus  this  first  education,  far  from  imposing  restraint  on  the 
child,  is  an  aid,  a  deliverance,  from  the  chaos  of  diverse 
impressions  with  which  it  is  overwhelmed.  By  bringing 
things  to  it  in  order,  one  by  one,  that  it  may  consider  them 
at  its  ease,  that  it  may  observe  and  handle  any  little  object 
that  pleases  it,  the  mother  creates  for  it  the  true  liberty  that 
its  age  demands. 


To  form  in  this  way  a  good  and  reliable  method,  you  must 
perfectly  understand  the  tendencies  of  the  child:  an  easy 
thing  for  her  who,  bending  over  it  night  and  day,  regards  it 
anxiously,  studying  only  what  it  is,  what  it  wants,  and  the 
good  she  can  do  it. 


Play. — The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother.      65 

First,  it  wishes  to  be  loved,  it  wishes  you  to  occupy  your- 
self with  it,  and  prove  your  love  for  it. — Ah  !  how  easy 
that  is ! 

Secondly,  it  wishes  to  live,  to  live  much,  to  be  always 
progressing,  to  extend  the  circle  of  its  little  actions,  to  move, 
to  vary  its  life,  to  pass  hither  and  thither,  to  be  free. — Be  not 
alarmed  ;  I  mean  free  around  you,  the  beloved ;  as  near  as 
possible  to  you,  always  able  to  touch  your  robe, — free,  above 
all,  to  embrace  you. 

Thirdly,  already  launched  upon  voyages  of  discovery,  it  is  in 
no  small  degree  preoccupied  with  a  world  of  new  things.  It 
prefers  to  understand,  through  you — and  it  always  goes  to 
you — not  by  an  instinct  of  weakness  and  ignorance  merely, 
but  by  I  know  not  what  sense  which  tells  it  that  everything 
sweet,  lovely,  and  good  comes  through  you,  that  you  are  the 
milk  of  life  and  the  honey  of  nature. 

And  fourthly ;  so  young,  scarcely  speaking,  scarcely  walking, 
it  is  already  like  us ;  its  heart  and  its  eyes  judge  like  ours, 
and  it  finds  you  very  beautiful.  Everything  is  beautiful  to  it, 
in  proportion  as  it  resembles  you.  Of  everything  which 
nearly  or  remotely  recalls  the  pleasant  forms  of  its  mother,  it 
says  flatly :  "  It  is  pretty."  When  they  are  inert  things,  it 
feels  less  distinctly  their  connexion  with  your  living  beauty. 
But  even  as  to  these  things,  you  powerfully  influence  its  judg- 
ment. 

The  symmetry  of  double  organs  and  forms,  of  your  hands 
and  eyes,  supplies  its  idea  of  harmony. 

Besides,  its  glorious  and  truly  divine  characteristic  is  that  it 
so  abounds  in  life,  that  it  dispenses  it  liberally  to  all  objects. 
The  simplest  are  the  best  for  it.  Organized,  living  beings 
may  amuse  it,  but  their  independent  action  will  perplex  it ; 
it  would  maltreat  them,  but  without  malice, — merely  to 
understand  them,  and  from  simple  curiosity. 

Give  it  rather  things  of  elementary  forms  (for  it  is  still  an 
element)  and  of  regular  outline,  which  it  can  group  together 
in  its  pastime.  Nature,  in  her  first  attempt  at  association, 


66      Play.— The  Child  Teaching  its  Mother. 

creates  crystals.  Imitate  nature — give  the  child  forms  lila 
crystals.  You  may  be  sure  it  will  use  them,  as  it  does  so 
many  other  things,  placing  them  side  by  side,  or  one  on  top 
of  another.  Such  is  its  instinct ;  if  you  do  not  give  it  some- 
thing, it  tries  sand,  which  will  not  be  fixed,  and  always 
disappoints  it. 

Above  all,  never  set  a  model  before  it,  to  fetter  its 
action.  Do  not  make  it  an  imitator.  Be  sure,  that  in  its 
mind,  or  at  least  in  its  memory,  it  will  find  pretty  types  for 
its  tiny  architecture.  Some  morning  you  will  be  astonished 
to  recognise  your  house. 

"  Marvellous! "  you  will  cry.  "  He  has  done  that  himself. — 
My  son  is  a  creator !" 

And  that  is  the  proper  name  for  man.  Moreover,  in  cre- 
ating anything,  he  goes  on  creating  himself.  He  is  his  own 
Prometheus. 

And  that  is  why,  young  mother,  from  the  very  first,  out 
of  the  pure  instinct  of  your  heart,  without  daring  to  express 
it,  you  felt  that  he  was  God. 

But  see !  she  is  at  once  alarmed ;  "  If  that  be  so,"  she 
says,  "  he  is  already  independent,  and  presently  he  will  escape 
from  me !" 

No,  no  fear  of  that :  for  a  very  long  time  he  will  remain 
quite  dependent  on  love ;  he  belongs  to  you,  and  that  is  his 
happiness.  If  he  creates,  it  is  always  for  you.  "  Look, 
mamma,  look  !"  (Nothing  would  be  beautiful  to  him  without 
the  favor  of  your  notice,  the  benediction  of  your  eyes.)  "  See 
what  I  have  made  for  you. — If  it  is  not  pretty,  I  will  do  it 
another  way." — So  he  piles  stone  on  stone,  block  on  block — 
"  See  here,  my  little  chair,  on  which  mamma  may  sit.  Two 
posts  and  one  beam  make  one  roof, — this  is  the  house  in 
which  mamma  shall  live  with  her  little  boy." 

You  are,  then,  his  complete  circle  ;  he  proceeds  from  you, 
and  returns  to  you.  The  essay,  the  first  effort  of  his  inven- 
tion, is  to  honor  you  in  his  work,  to  entertain  you  in  his 
house. 


The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child.  67 

Infantine  and  happiest  life  of  all,  and  all  engrossed  in  love ! 
Who  can  remember  it  without  regret  ? 


IV. 

THE    FRAIL    AND    SACRED    CHILD. 

WHEN  we  consider  how  few  children  live,  we  are  filled  with 
a  desire  to  render  them  happy,  at  whatever  cost. 

One  fourth  die  in  their  first  year — that  is,  before  they 
have  lived,  before  they  have  received  the  divine  baptism  of 
light  which  transfigures  the  brain  in  the  first  twelve  months. 

One  third  die  before  the  second  year — almost  before  they 
have  known  the  sweet  caresses  of  woman,  or  recognised  in  a 
mother  the  best  of  earthly  blessings. 

One  half  (in  many  countries)  do  not  reach  puberty — the 
first  dawn  of  love.  Overwhelmed  by  precocious  labors,  by  dry 
studies,  and  severe  discipline,  they  never  attain  that  second 
birth  of  happiness  and  enchantment. 

The  best  foundling  hospitals  may  be  said  to  be  the  ceme- 
teries; in  the  hospital  at  Moscow,  out  of  the  37,000  children 
received  hi  twenty  years,  only  1000  were  saved;  and  in  that 
of  Dublin,  200  out  of  12,000 — that  is,  one-sixtieth.  What  shall 
I  say  of  the  Paris  institution  ?  I  have  seen  and  admired  it, 
but  its  results  are  not  very  accurately  known.  In  it  are 
brought  together  two  very  different  classes  of  children :  1 . 
orphans,  who  are  received  there  after  being  reared — and  these 
stand  some  chance  of  living;  2.  foundlings,  properly  so  called, 
children  brought  thither  at  birth ;  these  are  sent  away  to  be 
nursed,  and  their  life  is  prolonged  for  some  months. 

Let  us  speak  only  of  the  happy  ones,  of  those  who  are  sur- 
rounded by  tenderness  and  foreseeing  care.  Look  at  them  : 
all  are  pretty  at  four  years  of  age,  and  ugly  at  eight ;  as  soon 
as  we  begin  to  refine  them,  they  change,  become  vulgar,  and 


68  The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child. 

deformed.  We  blame  nature  for  this ;  we  call  it  the  ungrate? 
ful  age ;  but  that  which  is  ungrateful,  sterile,  and  withering, 
is  only  the  stupidity  with  which  we  force  the  child  from  a  life 
full  of  action  into  one  of  barbarous  routine — and  turn  its  little 
head,  full  of  sensibility  and  imagination,  to  things  so  abstract 
as  {,  ;i<«sophy  or  mathematics.  To  do  this  without  injury  to 
the  child,  many  years  of  well-managed  transitions  are  neces- 
sary— very  short  and  very  easy  little  tasks,  diversified  with 
action,  but  not  automatic.  Our  asylums  are  still  far  from 
fulfilling  these  conditions. 


This  problem  of  education,  which  is  not  only  a  question  of 
future  development,  but  most  frequently  of  life  and  death, 
has  often  disturbed  my  mind.  The  world  is  divided  between 
two  opposite  educational  systems,  and  I  have  seen  both  fail. 

Education  by  simple  teaching,  traditional  and  authoritative, 
as  it  prevails  in  schools  and  colleges  (or  small  seminaries — for 
they  all  follow  the  same  method),  has  lost  prestige  throughout 
Europe,  and  to  its  well-established  insufficiency,  the  recent 
attempts  at  amelioration  have  added  confusion. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  free  schools,  which  aimed  rather  at 
forming  the  character  of  the  child  than  instructing  him,  which, 
inspired  by  Rousseau  and  Pestalozzi,  were  remarkable  for 
their  originality,  flourished  only  for  a  season  in  Switzerland 
and  Germany,  and  were  abandoned. 

These  schools  appealed  to  the  hearts  of  mothers ;  for,  what- 
ever came  of  them,  the  child,  in  the  meantime,  was  happy. 
But  the  fathers  found  that,  with  their  very  slow  methods,  they 
taught  too  little,  and  gave  too  few  lessons  ;  so,  in  spite  of  their 
mothers'  tears,  the  children  were  sent  off  to  colleges  (lay  or 
ecclesiastical). 

In  these  institutions,  many  wither  and  die  :  a  few,  very  few, 
learn,  but  only  by  superhuman  efforts.  A  course  of  instruction 
BO  various,  in  which  each  study  is  carried  on  separately,  with 


The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child.  69 

no  demonstration  of  its  relation  to  the  others,  exhausts  and 
cripples  the  mind. 

Girls,  of  whom  I  shall  presently  speak  more  particularly, 
are  no  better  educated  now  than  in  the  time  when  Fenelon 
wrote  his  pleasant  book,  or  when  the  author  ofJEmile  sketched 
his  Sophie.  Nothing  is  done  to  prepare  them  for  life ;  they 
are  sometimes  taught  accomplishments  that  dazzle,  sometimes 
(among  the  less  wealthy  classes)  pursue  a  few  serious  studies 
which  put  them  on  the  road  to  learning ;  but  no  culture  pecu- 
liar to  woman,  to  the  wife  and  mother,  no  special  education 
for  their  sex. 


I  had  read  so  much  on  these  subjects,  so  many  mediocre 
and  useless  things,  that  I  was  tired  of  books ;  on  the  other 
hand,  my  connexion  with  schools,  my  own  experience  in 
teaching,  left  many  things  obscure  to  me  ;  so  I  resolved,  this 
year,  to  go  to  the  very  source,  to  study  the  physical  orga- 
nization of  man,  face  to  face  with  facts — to  strengthen  my 
rnind  by  actual  observation.  The  body  tells  us  a  great  deal 
about  the  soul ;  it  is  much  to  see  and  touch  the  sacred  instru- 
ment on  which  the  young  soul  tries  to  play,  an  instrument 
which  may  reveal  its  character  and  indicate  to  us  the  measure 
of  its  forces. 

It  was  spring.  The  anatomical  course  was  over  in  Clamart, 
and  solitude  reigned  where  all  is  so  gay  and  populous  in 
winter.  The  trees  were  full  of  birds,  the  parterre  that 
embellishes  those  funereal  galleries  was  all  in  blossom.  But 
there  was  nothing  comparable  to  the  hieroglyphic  flower  I 
came  to  study.  The  term  is  by  no  means  a  fantastic  compa- 
rison— it  expresses  my  feeling.  I  experienced  no  disgust,  but 
on  the  contrary,  a  sentiment  of  admiration,  tenderness,  and 
pity.  The  brain  of  a  child,  one  year  old,  seen  for  the  first 
time,  from  its  base  (the  lower  side  as  it  appears  on  being 
reversed),  has  all  the  effect  of  a  large  and  splendid  camellia, 


jo  The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child. 

with  its  ivory  nerves,  its  delicate  rosy  veins,  and  its  pale  azure 
tint.  I  say  ivory,  for  want  of  a  better  word.  It  is  an 
immaculate  white,  and  yet  of  an  exquisite  and  tender  soft- 
ness, of  which  nothing  else  can  give  an  idea,  and  which,  to 
my  mind,  leaves  every  other  earthly  thing  far  behind. 

I  am  not  .deceived  about  this ;  my  first  emotions,  doubt- 
less strong,  nevertheless  did  not  cause  the  illusion.  Dr.  Beraud, 
and  a  very  skilful  artist  who  paints  anatomical  plates  daily, 
accustomed  as  they  are  to  see  these  things,  were  of  the 
same  opinion.  It  is  really  the  flower  of  flowers,  one  of  the 
most  delicate,  innocent,  charming  objects  in  the  world, — the 
most  touching  beauty  that  nature  has  ever  produced.  The 
vast  establishment  in  which  I  studied  enabled  me  to  pursue  a 
cautious  method,  to  repeat  and  verify  my  observations,  to 
make  comparisons  between  children  of  different  ages  and 
sexes,  and,  moreover,  to  compare  children  and  adults,  even  to 
extreme  old  age.  In  a  few  days,  I  had  brains  of  all  ages 
under  my  eyes,  so  that  I  could  trace  from  year  to  year  the 
progress  of  time. 

The  youngest  were  those  of  a  girl  who  had  lived  only  a  few 
days,  and  some  boys,  a  year  old  at  most.  She  had  never  seen 
the  light ;  but  they  had  had  time  to  be  impregnated  by  it. 
Hers  was  a  floating  brain,  in  its  rudimentary  state  :  theirs,  on 
the  contrary,  were  already  as  strong,  fixed,  and  almost  as  well 
developed,  as  those  of  older  children,  or  even  of  grown  persons. 

This  great  revolution  of  the  first  year  passed,  the  develop- 
ment of  the  mind  (visible  also  in  the  face)  modifies,  more 
than  the  age,  the  physiognomy  of  the  brain.  In  a  little 
girl  of  four  or  five  years,  of  intelligent  countenance,  it  was 
traversed  by  convolutions  and  folds,  more  neatly  arranged, 
more  finely  traced,  than  in  those  of  many  common  women  of 
twenty-five  or  even  thirty-five  years.  The  mysterious  figures 
which  the  cerebellum  presents  in  its  thickest  part,  and  which 
are  called  the  tree  of  life,  were  much  better  outlined  in  this 
young  child,  prettier,  and  more  clearly  defined. 

This  was  not,  however,  an  exceptional  case ;  in  many  chil- 


The  Frail  and  Sacred  Child.  71 

dren  of  the  same  age  I  found  nearly  the  same  development ; 
and  I  came  to  the  conclusion,  that  at  the  age  of  four,  not  only 
the  brain,  but  the  spinal  marrow  and  the  whole  nervous  sy>s 
tern,  have  their  greatest  development.  So,  long  before  the 
muscles  attain  their  strength,  while  the  child  is  still  so  feeble, 
the  brain  is  quite  mature  as  to  its  nerves  of  sensation  and 
motion  ;  it  is  already,  in  its  most  charming  harmony,  a 
human  being. 

But,  though  thus  developed,  at  this  age  it  is  still  exceed- 
ingly dependent,  and  wholly  at  our  mercy.  The  brain  of  that 
child  of  four  years,  pure  and  blank  as  an  ivory  tablet,  full  of 
sensibility,  seemed  to  wait  for  something  to  be  written  upon 
it — to  say :  "  Write  here  whatever  you  please — I  will  believe, 
I  will  obey,  I  am  here  to  obey ;  I  am  so  dependent  upon  you, 
and  belong  to  you  so  entirely." 

An  utter  incapacity  to  avoid  any  suffering,  or  to  provide 
what  is  necessary  for  itself,  characterizes  the  child  at  this  time. 
This  one,  especially,  advanced  as  she  was,  capable  of  loving  and 
understanding,  seemed  to  implore  assistance.  You  might  have 
almost  read  her  prayer — for,  though  dead,  she  still  prayed. 

I  was  greatly  moved,  but  at  the  same  time  enlightened. 
The  nerves  of  this  poor  little  girl  afforded  me  a  very  precise 
revelation  and  insight  into  the  absolute  contradictions  which 
constitute  the  child's  state  of  being. 

On  the  one  hand,  it  is  a  mobile  creature — more  than  all  others 
moving  by  necessity.  The  nerves  of  motion  are  developed 
and  active  before  the  counterpoising  forces  which  maintain  the 
equilibrium.  Thus  its  incessant  restlessness  annoys  and  often 
vexes  us :  we  do  not  reflect  that  at  this  age  the  child  is  life 
itself. 

On  the  other  hand,  the  nerves  of  sensation  are  mature ;  con- 
sequently the  child's  capacity  to  suffer,  and  even  to  love,  is 
greater  than  is  commonly  believed.  We  have  proof  of  this 
in  the  Enfants-Trouves  /  a  great  many  of  the  children  brought 
there  at  four  or  five  years  of  age  are  inconsolable,  and  die. 

A  more  astonishing  fact,  in  connexion  with  this  tender  age,  is 


72  Love  at  Five  Years.— The  Doll. 

— that  amorous  sensibility  is  expressed  in  the  nerves  more 
strongly  than  in  the  adult.  I  was  alarmed  at  this;  love,  slum- 
bering as  yet  in  the  sexual  organs,  seemed  already  fully  awa- 
kened in  those  parts  of  the  spinal  marrow  which  act  on  those 
organs.  No  doubt  that  at  the  first  call  they  afford  premoni- 
tions of  it ;  we  need  not  then  be  astonished  at  their  innocent 
coquetries,  their  sudden  timidities,  their  furtive  movements 
of  bashfulness  without  cause. 

Here  is  a  pitiful  phenomenon,  which  should  make  us  trem- 
ble. This  infinitely  mobile  being,  remember,  is  at  the  same 
time  infinitely  sensitive.  Be  kind,  patient,  I  pray  you ! 

We  destroy  them  by  harshness,  often  too  by  tenderness. 
Passionate  and  fitful  mothers  force  and  enervate  the  child 
by  their  violent  transports.  I  would  desire  for  such  as  these 
the  painful  but  salutary  impression  that  the  sight  of  so  ten- 
der an  organism  would  bestow.  It  needs  to  be  surrounded 
by  a  mild  and  gentle  and  serious  love,  by  a  world  of  pure 
harmonies.  The  little  creature  herself,  already  amorous  in 
organization,  is  in  almost  as  much  danger  from  furious  ca- 
resses as  from  undue  severity.  Spare  her,  and  let  her  live ! 


V. 

LOVE    AT    FIVE    YEARS. THE    DOLL. 

IT  is  strange  that  the  excellent  Madame  Necker  de  Saus- 
sure  should  have  thought  that,  till  ten  years  of  age,  a  girl 
and  a  boy  are  almost  the  same  thing,  and  that  what  is  said  about 
the  one  will  apply  to  the  other.  Whoever  observes  them,  well 
knows  that  this  almost  is  an  incalculable,  an  infinite  difference. 

Little  girls,  in  the  full  levity  of  their  age,  are  already  much 
the  more  staid.  They  are  also  more  tender ;  you  will  rarely 
see  them  hurt  a  little  dog,  or  choke  or  pluck  a  bird ;  they 
have  charming  impulses  of  goodness  and  pity. 


Love  at  Five  Years. — The  Doll.  73 

Once,  indisposed,  I  was  lying  on  a  sofa,  half  covered  with 
a  cloak.  A  lovely  little  girl,  whom  her  mother  had  brought 
on  a  visit  to  us,  ran  to  me  and  tried  to  cover  me  better,  to 
tuck  me  in  in  my  bed.  How  can  we  help  loving  the  delight- 
ful little  creatures ;  nevertheless  we  must  be  cautious  not  to 
show  it  too  much,  not  to  fondle  them  too  much. 

The  little  boy  is  wholly  different ;  he  will  not  long  play 
in  peace  with  a  girl ;  if  they  begin  at  first  to  make  a  house,  the 
boy  will  soon  want  it  to  be  a  carriage ;  he  must  have  a  wooden 
horse,  to  whip  and  manage.  Then  she  will  play  by  herself. 
He  vainly  "  makes  believe  "  to  be  her  brother,  or  indeed  her 
little  husband  ;  even  if  he  be  the  younger,  she  despairs  of  him, 
and  resigns  herself  to  solitude, — and  this  is  what  happens : 

It  is  chiefly  in  the  winter,  by  the  fireside,  that  you  will 
observe  it,  when  people  are  shut  up  in  the  house,  and  do  not 
run  about,  and  there  is  little  doing  out  of  doors.  Some  day, 
when  she  has  been  scolded  a  little,  you  will  see  her  in  a  corner 
softly  wrapping  some  object,  a  bit  of  stick  perhaps,  with  linen, 
and  a  piece  of  one  of  her  mother's  new  gowns ;  she  will  tie  it 
with  a  thread  in  the  middle,  and  with  another  higher  up,  to 
mark  the  waist  and  the  head — and  then  will  she  embrace  it 
tenderly,  and  rock  it  to  and  fro :  "  Thou,  thou  lovest  me,"  she 
says  in  a  low  voice ;  "  thou  wilt  never  scold  me." 

This  is  play,  but  serious  play,  much  more  serious  than  we 
think.  What  is  this  new  person,  this  child  of  your  child? 
let  us  examine  all  the  characters  the  mysterious  creature 
enacts. 

You  think  that  it  is  simply  an  imitation  of  maternity,  that 
to  imagine  herself  grown  up,  as  tall  as  her  mother,  she 
wishes  to  have  also  a  little  daughter  of  her  own,  which  she 
may  rule  and  govern,  embrace  or  scold.  So  it  is — but  some- 
thing more  also :  to  this  instinct  of  imitation  must  be  added 
another,  which  the  precocious  organism  imparts  to  all,  even 
to  those  who  may  never  have  had  a  mother  for  a  model. 

Let  us  name  it  aright:  It  is  First  Love.  Its  ideal  is 
not  a  brother  (he  is  too  rude,  too  noisy),  but  a  young  sister, 

4 


74  Love  at  Five  Years.— The  Doll. 

gentle,  lovely,  like  herself,  who  may  caress  and  console 
her. 

In  another  aspect,  not  less  true,  it  is  the  first  attempt  at 
independence,  a  timid  essay  of  individuality. 

Under  this  pretty  manifestation,  there  is,  without  her 
knowing  it,  a  feeble  desire  to  withdraw  herself,  something  of 
feminine  opposition  and  contradiction.  She  is  beginning  her 
role  as  woman  :  always  subject  to  authority,  she  murmurs  a 
little  at  her  mother,  as  she  will  hereafter  at  her  husband.  She 
must  have  an  ever  so  tiny  confidant,  with  whom  she  may 
sigh.  For  what?  Nothing  to-day  perhaps,  but  some- 
thing or  other  which  will  come  in  the  future.  Ah !  you  are 
right,  my  little  daughter.  How,  alas !  will  your  small  pleasures 
be  mingled  with  sorrows !  We  who  adore  you,  how  much 
we  make  you  weep ! 


We  must  not  jest  at  this — it  is  a  serious  passion.  The 
mother  should  join  in  it,  and  receive  with  kindness  the  child 
of  her  daughter.  Far  from  despising  the  doll,  she  should  insist 
that  the  capricious  girl  be  always  a  good  mother  to  it,  and 
keep  it  properly  dressed,  that  it  be  neither  spoiled  nor  beaten, 
but  treated  reasonably,  as  she  is  herself. 

You  big  children,  who  may  read  this — father,  brother,  cou- 
sins— I  pray  you,  do  not  laugh  at  the  child.  Examine  your- 
selves— do  you  not  resemble  her?  How  often,  in  affairs  which 
you  deem  the  gravest,  a  memory  returns  to  you,  and  you 
smile — half  avowing  to  yourselves  that  you  have  been  playing 
with  a  doll. 

Observe,  that  the  more  the  little  girl's  doll  is  her  own,  the 
more  that  it  is  of  her  simple,  elementary,  but  also  personal, 
manufacture,  the  more  has  she  set  her  heart  upon  it,  and  the 
more  danger  there  is  of  distressing  her. 

In  the  country,  in  the  north  of  France,  a  poor  and  hard- 
working region,  I  once  saw  a  very  discreet  little  girl,  wise 


Love  at  Five  Years. — The  Doll.  73 

beyond  her  years.  She  had  only  brothers,  who  were  all  older 
than  she ;  born  long  after  her  parents  had  ceased  to  expect 
more  children,  they  seemed  to  take  it  amiss  that  she  had  come 
into  the  world.  Her  mother,  laborious  and  severe,  kept  her 
always  near  her  at  work,  while  the  others  played  ;  the  elder 
boys,  moreover,  with  that  selfish  levity  which  marks  their  sex 
in  childhood,  rarely  took  part  in  the  sports  of  their  young  sister. 
She  tried  to  make  herself  a  little  garden ;  but  they  laughed  at 
her  attempts,  and  trampled  on  it.  Naturally  it  occurred  to  her 
to  make,  out  of  some  cotton  rags,  a  little  friend,  to  whom  she 
might  relate  the  tricks  of  her  brothers  or  the  scoldings  of 
her  mother.  Her  tenderness  was  lively  and  extreme.  The  doll 
was  sensible,  replied  intelligently,  and  in  the  sweetest  voice; 
by  her  tender  effusions,  her  touching  recitals,  it  was  equally 
affected,  and,  embracing  each  other,  they  wept. 

One  Sunday  it  was  discovered,  and  created  much  laughter ; 
the  boys,  tearing  it  from  her  arms,  took  great  delight  in 
throwing  it  up  to  the  topmost  branches  of  a  tree,  so  high  that 
it  finally  remained  there.  Her  tears  and  cries  availed  her 
nothing.  She  was  faithful  however,  and  in  her  grief  refused 
ever  to  make  another.  All  the  winter  long,  she  thought  of 
it,  and  wept  and  wept  to  think  that  it  was  out  in  the  snow 
and  storm.  "When,  in  the  spring,  the  tree  was  cut  down,  she 
begged  the  gardener  to  look  for  it.  I  need  scarcely  say,  that 
long  before  that,  her  poor  sister  had  been  carried  away  by 
the  northern  blasts. 

Two  years  after,  as  her  mother  was  buying  some  clothes 
for  the  boys,  the  shopwoman,  who  had  also  toys  for  sale, 
noticed  the  little  one  looking  at  them.  Her  good  heart 
prompted  her  to  give  something  to  the  child  for  whom 
nothing  was  purchased ;  so  she  placed  in  her  arms  a  little  Ger- 
man doll.  So  great  was  her  surprise  and  delight,  that  she 
trembled  and  tottered,  and  could  hardly  carry  it. — This  doll, 
pliant  and  obedient,  lent  itself  to  her  every  wish.  It  was 
fond  of  dress,  and  its  mistress  thought  only  of  making  it 
beautiful  and  brilliant ;  but  that  was  the  ruin  of  it — the  boys 


76  Woman  a  Religion. 

danced  her  to  death :  her  arms  were  torn  out,  and  she 
fell  so  ill  that  she  was  put  to  bed  and  nursed.  The  little  girl 
sank  under  these  new  blows  of  grief. 

Fortunately  a  young  lady,  touched  with  pity  at  seeing  her 
so  very  sad,  found  among  her  trumpery  a  splendid  doll,  which 
had  been  her  own.  Although  defaced  by  time,  it  was  much 
more  real  than  the  modern  one  ;  its  form  was  perfect — even 
when  naked,  it  seemed  alive.  Her  friends  often  caressed  it ; 
and  already  it  had  preferences  in  its  friendships,  and  showed 
gleams,  and  first  signs,  of  a  precocious  passionate  character. 
Duiing  a  short  illness  by  which  the  little  girl  was  confined, 
some  one,  perhaps  from  jealousy,  cruelly  broke  the  doll;  its 
mistress,  on  her  recovery,  found  it  decapitated.  This  third 
tragedy  was  too  much ;  she  fell  into  such  melancholy  that 
she  was  never  seen  to  smile  or  play  afterwards.  Always  de- 
ceived in  her  fancies,  she  grew  weary  of  life,  which  she  had 
scarcely  tasted,  and  nothing  could  save  her.  So  she  died, 
sincerely  mourned  for  by  all  who  had  seen  the  sweet,  gentle, 
innocent  creature,  who  had  scarcely  known  happiness,  and 
who  yet  was  so  affectionate,  with  a  heart  so  full  of  love. 


VI. 

WOMAN  A  RELIGION. 

IN  education,  the  father  is  far  too  much  concerned  for  the 
future,  that  is,  for  the  Uncertain.  The  mother  is  devoted 
chiefly  to  the  present,  and  wishes  her  child  to  be  happy,  and 
to  live.  I  take  my  stand  with  the  mother. 

To  live !  which  is  really  a  most  difficult  thing.  Men  do 
not  think  of  that ;  though  they  may  have  under  their  very  eyes 
the  spectacle  of  the  trials,  the  watchings,  the  anxious  cares, 
by  Avhich  from  day  to  day  the  life  of  a%  frail  being  is  pro- 
longed, they  coolly  reason  on  what  it  will  do  ten  years  hence. 


Woman  a  Religion.  77 

• 

Let  them,  then,  at  least  understand  the  indisputable,  official 
statistics  of  the  frightful  mortality  of  children.  To  the  new- 
born babe,  death  is  for  a  long  time  the  probable  fate — with- 
out a  mother,  almost  certain.  The  cradle  is  for  the  most  part 
a  brief  moment  of  light  between  night  and  night  again. 

Women,  who  write  and  print,  have  made  eloquent  books 
on  the  misfortunes  of  their  sex ;  but  if  children  could  write, 
what  things  they  would  have  to  tell !  They  would  say : 
"  Take  care  of  us,  spare  us  for  the  few  days  or  months  gene- 
rally allotted  us  by  unsparing  nature.  We  are  so  dependent 
on  you !  You  so  hold  us  by  superior  strength,  reason,  and 
experience  !  For  the  little  of  skill  and  good  management  that 
you  expend  in  our  cause,  we  will  be  very  obedient,  we  will 
do  what  you  will.  But  do  not  shorten  the  only  hour  we  have 
beneath  the  warm  light  of  the  sun  and  on  our  mothers'  knee. 
— To-morrow  we  shall  be  under  the  sod ;  and  of  all  earthly 
goods,  we  shall  take  away  with  us  only  their  tears." 


Impatient  minds  will  conclude  from  this  that  I  desire  for 
children  that  unlimited  liberty  which  would  be  our  servitude, 
that  I  trust  only  in  the  child's  instinctive  tendencies,  that  I 
would  have  him  obeyed. 

On  the  contrary,  I  set  out,  as  you  remember,  with  the  pro- 
found and  original  idea  which  Frrebel  first  broached :  "  The 
child,  left  to  the  chaos  of  first  impressions,  would  be  very 
unhappy.  He  is  relieved  if  the  mother  substitute  for  that 
wearisome  confusion  a  small  number  of  coherent  objects, 
if  she  understand  these,  and  present  them  to  him  in  order. 
For  order  is  a  necessity  of  the  mind,  and  consequently  hap- 
piness for  the  child." 

Orderless  habits,  unbridled  agitations,  are  no  more  neces- 
sary to  the  happiness  of  the  growing  child,  than  a  chaos  of 
confused  sensations  to  the  nurseling.  I  have  very  often 
noticed  the  little  unfortunates  who  were  left  entirely  to  their 


78  Woman  a  Religion. 

own  fancy,  and  have  been  astonished  to  see  how  soon  they 
are  weaned  by  their  empty  boisterousness  and  boldness.  For 
want  of  personal  restraint  they  encounter  every  moment  the 
restraint  of  things,  the  mute  but  fixed  obstacle  of  realities ; 
they  fret  against  this  to  no  purpose.  On  the  contrary,  the 
child,  directed  by  a  friendly  providence  and  in  natural  ways, 
but  rarely  subjected  to  the  tyrannies  of  the  impossible,  lives 
in  true  liberty. 

The  habitual  exercise  of  freedom  in  the  paths  of  order,  has 
this  admirable  result — that  sooner  or  later  it  will  inspire 
nature  with  the  noble  purpose  of  subduing  itself,  of  con- 
quering liberty  through  a  higher  liberty,  of  seeking  effort  and 
sacrifice. 

Effort  itself  belongs  to  nature,  and  is  its  best  element;  I 
mean  free  and  deliberate  effort. 


I  have  made  this  explanation  in  advance,  for  the  benefit  of 
those  who  criticise  before  they  read.  I  am  still  very  far 
from  imposing  effort  upon  the  little  creature  I  have  in  hand. 
She  is  intelligent,  loving;  but  she  is,  nevertheless,  only  an 
element.  God  preserve  me,  poor  little  one,  from  telling  you 
all  this !  Your  duty  to-day  is  to  live,  to  grow,  to  eat  well,  to 
sleep  better,  to  run  in  the  wheat,  and  among  the  flowers. 
But  one  can't  always  be  running,  and  you  will  be  very  happy 
if  your  mother  or  elder  sister  will  play  with  you,  and  make 
you  skilful  in  those  labors  which  are  games. 

Duty  is  the  inner  soul,  the  life  of  education.  The  child 
feels  it  very  early ;  almost  at  birth,  we  have  inscribed  on  our 
hearts  the  idea  of  justice.  I  might  appeal  to  that,  but  I  will 
not  yet.  Life  should  be  completely  and  firmly  established, 
before  its  barrier  is  set  up,  and  its  action  limited.  Those 
who  make  a  great  commotion  about  morals  and  obligations 
with  the  child  that  is  not  yet  sure  of  living  at  all,  who  labor 
to  confine  and  circumscribe  its  needed  buoyancy  of  action,  are 


Woman  a  Religion.  79 

only  too  stupid.  Ah!  wretched  bunglers,  lay  aside  youi 
shears;  at  least  wait  till  the  material  is  there,  before  you  dock, 
and  cut,  and  trim  it. 

The  foundation  of  education,  its  soul  and  constant  life,  is 
what  appears  early  in  the  conscience — the  good,  the  just.  The 
great  art  is,  by  love,  gentleness,  order,  and  harmony,  to  teach 
the  infant  soul,  as  it  attains  its  true,  healthy,  and  complete  life 
to  perceive  more  and  more  clearly  the  justice  that  already 
exists  within  it,  inscribed  in  the  depths  of  love.  Let  the  child 
have  examples  only,  no  precepts — at  least  not  in  the  begin- 
ning ;  he  will  of  himself  easily  pass  from  one  to  the  other. 
Without  seeking,  he  will  discover  this:  "I  ought  to  love 
my  mother  dearly,  because  she  loves  me  so  much."  That 
is  duty,  and  yet  nothing  is  more  natural. 

I  am  not  now  writing  a  book  on  education,  and  should  not 
stop  to  discuss  general  views,  but  proceed  to  my  special  sub- 
ject, the  education  of  the  daughter.  Let  us  have  done  then 
with  what  is  common  between  the  girl  and  boy,  and  dwell  on 
the  difference. 

It  is  profound,  and  this  it  is : 

The  education  of  the  boy,  in  the  modern  sense,  aims  to 
organize  a  force,  an  effective  and  productive  force,  to  create 
a  creator ;  which  is  the  modern  man. 

The  education  of  the  girl  is  to  produce  harmony,  to  har- 
monize a  religion. 

Woman  is  a  religion. 

Her  destiny  is  such,  that  the  higher  she  stands  as  religious 
poetry,  the  more  effective  will  she  be  in  common  and  practical 
life. 

The  utility  of  man,  being  in  creative,  productive  power,  may 
exist  apart  from  the  ideal;  an  art  which  yields  noble  pro- 
ducts may  sometimes  have  the  effect  of  vulgarizing  the  artist, 
who  may  himself  retain  very  little  of  the  beauty  he  infuses 
into  his  works. 

There  is  never  anything  like  this  in  woman. 

The  woman  of  prosaic  heart,  she  who  is  not  a  living  power, 


80  Woman  a  Religion. 

a  harmony  to  exalt  a  husband,  to  educate  a  child,  to  con. 
stantly  sanctify  and  ennoble  a  family,  has  failed  in  her  mis- 
sion, and  will  exert  no  influence  even  in  what  is  vulgar. 


A  mother,  seated  by  the  cradle  of  her  daughter,  should 
say  to  herself:  "I  have  here  the  war  or  the  peace  of  the 
world,  what  will  trouble  the  hearts  of  men  or  give  them  the 
tranquillity  and  high  harmony  of  God. 

"  She  it  is  who,  if  I  die,  will  at  twelve  years  of  age,  on  my 
tomb,  raise  her  father  on  her  little  wings,  and  carry  him  back 
to  heaven.  (See  the  Life  of  Manin.) 

•"  She  it  is  who,  at  sixteen,  may  with  a  word  of  proud  enthu- 
siasm, exalt  a  man  far  above  himself,  and  make  him  cry,  *I 
will  be  great !' 

"  She  it  is  who,  at  twenty,  and  at  thirty,  and  all  her  life 
long,  will  renew  her  husband,  every  night,  as  he  returns 
deadened  by  his  labor,  and  make  his  wilderness  of  interests 
and  cares  blossom  like  the  rose. 

"  She  again,  who,  in  the  wretched  days,  when  the  heavens 
are  dark,  and  everything  is  disenchanted,  will  bring  God  back 
to  him,  making  him  find  and  feel  Him  on  her  bosom." 

To  educate  a  daughter  is  to  educate  society  itself.  Society 
proceeds  from  the  family,  of  which  the  wife  is  the  living  bond. 
To  educate  a  daughter  is  a  sublime  and  disinterested  task ;  for 
you  create  her,  O  mother,  only  that  she  may  leave  you,  and 
make  your  heart  bleed.  She  is  destined  for  another.  She 
will  live  for  others,  not  for  you,  not  for  herself;  it  is  this 
relative  character  which  places  her  higher  than  man,  and  makes 
her  a  religion.  She  is  the  flame  of  love,  and  the  flame  of  the 
hearth  ;  she  is  the  cradle  of  the  future,  and  she  is  the  school, 
another  cradle — in  a  word :  She  is  the  altar. 

God  be  thanked,  all  the  debated  systems  for  the  education 
of  the  boy  end  here,  all  disputes  cease  here.  The  great  conflict 
of  methods  and  theories  expires  in  the  peaceful  nurture  of  this 


Woman  a  Religion.  81 

blessed  flower ;  discords  are  disarmed,  and  embrace  each  othei 
in  Beauty. 

She  is  not  condemned  to  strong  and  violent  action ;  she 
will  know,  but  not  enter  into,  the  frightful  world  of  details, 
'Bver  increasing,  beyond  all  the  powers  of  man. 

Will  she  ever  rise  to  the  summits  of  high  speculation  ?  Very 
likely,  but  not  by  following  in  our  footsteps.  We  will  prepare 
ways  for  her  to  reach  the  idea,  without  subjecting  her  charming 
soul  to  the  preliminary  tortures  in  which  the  spirit  of  life  is  lost. 

What  shall  she  be  ?  Beauty.  After  what  model,  O  mother, 
shall  she  form  herself? 

Every  morning  and  every  night,  offer  up  this  prayer :  "  My 
God,  make  me  very  beautiful !  that  my  daughter,  to  be  so, 
need  only  look  on  me !" 


The  end  of  woman  on  this  earth,  her  evident  vocation,  is 
love.  One  must  be  very  unfortunately  constituted,  very  hos- 
tile to  nature,  very  blind  and  crooked-souled,  to  pronounce, 
against  God  himself,  that  this  delicate  organism  and  this  ten- 
derness of  heart  are  destined  only  to  isolation.  "  Let  us  edu- 
cate her,"  they  say,  "  to  be  self-sufficing ;  that  is  the  safest  plan. 
Love  is  the  exception,  and  indifference  the  rule.  Let  her  know 
how  to  live  within  herself — to  labor,  pray,  die,  and  work  out 
her  salvation,  in  a  corner." 

To  this  I  reply,  that  love  will  never  be  wanting  to  her.  I 
maintain  that,  as  a  woman,  she  earns  her  salvation  only  by 
constituting  the  happiness  of  man.  She  ought  to  love  and  bear 
children  ;  it  is  her  sacred  duty.  But  let  this  remark  be  under- 
stood— if  she  is  not  a  wife  and  mother,  she  may  be  an  instruc- 
tress ;  in  which  case  she  will  be  no  less  a  mother,  and  will  bear 
the  fruit  of  the  mind. 

Yes,  if  it  has  been  her  misfortune  to  be  born  in  an  accursed 
epoch,  when  the  most  lovely  are  no  longer  beloved,  so  much 
the  more  will  she  open  her  arms  and  her  heart  to  the  universal 

4* 


82  Woman  a  Religion. 

love.  For  one  child  that  she  might  have  borne,  she  will  have 
a  thousand  ;  and  clasping  them  to  her  bosom  she  will  say :  "  I 
have  lost  nothing." 


Let  the  men  understand  one  thing,  a  noble  and  exquisite 
mystery  that  nature  has  concealed  in  the  bosom  of  woman ; 
and  that  is  the  divine  doubt  wherein,  in  her  organization,  love 
dwells.  In  men,  it  is  always  desire ;  but  in  her,  even  without 
her  knowledge,  in  her  blindest  impulses,  the  instinct  of  ma- 
ternity overpowers  all  the  rest.  And  when  egotistical  pride 
convinces  the  lover  that  he  has  conquered,  we  may  see,  most 
frequently,  that  she  has  yielded  only  to  her  own  dream — the 
hope  and  love  of  a  child,  which  almost  from  her  birth  she  had 
conceived  in  her  heart. 

High  poetry  of  purity !  In  every  season  of  love,  when  the 
senses  assert  themselves,  the  instinct  of  maternity  eludes  them, 
and  bears  love  into  sublimer  regions. 

To  educate  woman,  is  to  promote  her  transformation — it  is, 
at  every  step  of  her  life,  by  giving  her  love  according  to  the 
necessities  of  her  heart,  to  aid  her  thus  to  exalt  love,  and 
elevate  it  to  a  form  at  once  so  pure  and  so  intense. 

To  express  in  a  word  this  sublime  and  delightful  poesy: 
from  the  cradle  woman  is  a  mother,  and  longs  for  maternity. 
To  her  everything  in  nature,  animate  or  inanimate,  is  trans- 
formed into  little  children. 

We  shall  perceive  more  and  more  clearly  how  felicitous  this 
is ;  woman  alone  can  educate  man,  especially  in  the  decisive 
years  when  it  is  necessary  with  prudent  tenderness  to  discipline 
his  young  liberty  by  bringing  it  into  order.  To  brutally  break 
and  crush  the  human  plant,  as  hitherto  has  been  done,  there 
is  no  need  of  women.  But  they  will  be  recognised  as  the 
only  possible  educators,  in  proportion  as  we  shall  desire  to 
cultivate  in  each  child  his  peculiar  and  natural  genius,  which 
is  of  infinite  diversity.  None  but  a  woman  is  sufficiently  deli- 
cate, tender,  and  patient,  to  perceive  so  many  shades,  and 
take  advantage  of  them. 


Woman  a  Religion.  83 

The  world  lives  by  woman.  She  contributes  two  elements 
which  create  all  civilization ;  her  grace,  her  delicacy ;  but  this 
last  is  chiefly  a  reflection  of  her  purity. 

What  would  become  of  the  world  of  men,  if  these  two  things 
were  wanting?  Those  who  seem  most  indifferent  to  them 
forget  that,  without  this  grace,  these  forms  at  least  of  purity, 
love  would  be  extinguished  on  earth — love,  the  all-powerful 
spur  of  our  human  activities.  Delicious  torment,  fruitful 
trouble !  without  you,  who  would  care  to  live  ? 

It  is  necessary,  absolutely  necessary,  for  woman  to  be  grace- 
ful. She  is  not  bound  to  be  beautiful,  but  grace  is  essential 
to  her.  She  owes  it  to  nature,  which  has  made  her  to  be  ad- 
mired ;  she  owes  it  to  humanity.  Grace  charms  the  arts  of 
men,  and  imparts  a  divine  smile  to  all  society. 

And  what  must  the  child  do  to  be  graceful?  She  must 
always  feel  that  she  is  loved.  Let  her  be  guided  equably :  no 
violent  alternations  of  rigor  and  tenderness;  nothing  rude, 
precipitate,  but  a  very  gradual  progress — no  interruptions,  and 
no  very  great  effort.  She  need  not  be  embellished  with  elabo- 
rate ornaments;  but  by  a  sweet  absorption,  create  a  new 
beauty  which,  little  by  little,  will  bloom  out  from  within. 


Grace  is  a  reflection  of  love  on  a  groundwork  of  purity. 
Purity  is  the  woman  herself: 

Such  should  be  the  constant  thought  of  the  mother,  as  soon 
as  a  daughter  is  born  to  her. 

The  purity  of  the  child  is  at  first  that  of  the  mother ;  the 
child  should  always  find  truth,  light,  and  absolute  transpa- 
rency, as  of  a  perfect  mirror,  in  her,  which  no  breath  ever 
tarnishes. 

In  the  morning  and  evening,  both  should  make  abundant 
warm  ablutions — or  better,  a  little  cold.  In  all  things  they 
hold  together.  The  more  the  little  girl  sees  her  mother  atten 
tive  to  neatness,  the  more  will  she  wish  to  be  like  her  in  pel- 
son,  and  soon  in  heart  also. 


84  Woman  a  Religion. 

Purity  of  air  and  temper ;  purity  and  uniformity  of  influ- 
ences. Let  there  be  no  nurse  to  spoil  below  stairs  what  is 
done  above,  by  flattering  the  child,  and  making  her  think  her 
mamma  cross. 

Purity  above  all  in  her  regimen  and  her  food.  And  what 
is  to  be  understood  by  that? 

I  mean  that  the  little  one  should  have  a  child's  diet,  that 
she  should  continue  her  milk  regimen,  sweet,  mild,  and  not 
exciting ;  that,  if  she  eat  at  your  table,  she  should  be  taught  not 
to  touch  your  dishes,  which  are  poisons  to  her.  A  revolution 
has  been  at  work  here :  we  have  abandoned  the  frugal  French 
regimen,  and  adopted,  more  and  more,  the  heavy,  bloody 
cuisine  of  our  neighbors,  much  more  appropriate  to  their  cli- 
mate than  to  ours,  and  the  worst  of  it  is  that  we  inflict  this 
diet  on  our  children.  A  strange  spectacle  truly,  to  see  a 
mother  give  to  the  daughter  she  was  nursing  but  yesterday,  a 
coarse  supply  of  half-raw  meats,  and  dangerous  stimulants, 
wine,  and  (exaltation  itself)  coffee !  She  is  astonished  to  find 
the  child  violent,  whimsical,  passionate,  when  she  has  only 
herself  to  blame  for  it. 

What  she  does  not  yet  know,  but  which  is  nevertheless  of 
grave  importance,  is,  that  in  our  precocious  French  race  (I 
have  seen  nurslings  in  love  in  the  cradle),  the  excitement  of 
the  senses  is  directly  provoked  by  such  a  regimen.  Far  from 
strengthening,  it  agitates,  weakens,  enervates.  The  mother 
finds  it  pleasant  and  pretty  to  have  so  lively  a  child,  with 
repartees  already,  and  so  sensitive  that  it  weeps  at  the  least 
word.  It  is  all  owing  to  her  being  over-excited  herself;  she 
wishes  her  child  to  be  so,  and  without  knowing  it,  is  a  cor- 
rupter  of  her  own  daughter. 

All  this  is  worth  nothing  to  her,  madam,  and  scarcely  more 
to  you.  You  have  not  the  courage,  you  say,  to  eat  anything, 
unless  she  has  her  share.  Well,  abstain  then,  or  at  least  be 
moderate  in  the  use  of  such  a  diet — good  for  a  jaded  man, 
perhaps,  but  fatal  to  an  idle  woman — vulgarizing  her,  per- 
turbing her,  making  her  violent,  somnolent,  or  stupid. 


Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers.  85 

In  both  woman  and  child  it  is  a  kindness,  a  loving  kindness, 
to  be  chiefly  frugivorous,  to  avoid  the  fetid  viands,  and  live 
rather  on  the  "innocent  aliments  which  cost  no  creature  its 
life — the  fragrant  fruits  which  delight  the  smell  quite  as 
much  as  the  taste.  A  very  natural  reason  why  the  dear 
creatures  never  inspire  repugnance,  but  seem  etherial  in  com- 
parison with  men — is  chiefly  to  be  found  in  their  preference 
for  vegetables  and  fruits,  a  purity  of  diet  which  contributes 
not  a  little  to  that  of  the  soul,  and  truly  assimilates  it  to 
the  innocence  of  flowers. 


VII. 

LOVE    AT   TEN   TEAKS. FLOWERS. 

WHEN  the  good  Frcebel  placed  in  the  pretty  but  rather 
awkward  hand  of  my  dear  little  one  the  elementary  forms 
with  which  nature  begins,  he  invited  her  also  to  the  love 
of  vegetable  life.  To  build  a  house  is  beautiful;  but  how 
much  more  beautiful  to  make  a  plant,  to  create  a  new  life,  a 
flower  which  will  expand,  and  reward  you  for  your  pains ! 

A  splendid  red  kidney-bean,  the  admiration  of  childhood, 
has  been  planted,  not  without  some  solemnity.  But,  to  wait 
is  a  thing  impossible  at  five  years ;  how  can  she  wait,  inactive, 
for  what  nature  does  by  herself?  Next  day,  of  course,  the 
kidney-bean  is  visited.  Taken  up  and  put  back  carefully,  it  is 
not  at  all  improved.  The  tender  anxiety  of  its  young  nurse 
leaves  it  no  repose ;  she  removes  at  least  the  surface  of  the 
soil.  With  an  indefatigable  watering-pot,  she  importunes  the 
idleness  of  the  nonchalant  vegetable ;  the  earth  drinks  won- 
derfully, and  seems  to  be  always  thirsty.  So,  in  spite  of  the 
care  and  the  watering,  the  bean  dies. 

Gardening  is  a  labor  of  virtue  and  patience ;  it  is  excellent 
discipline  for  the  character  of  a  child.  But  at  what  age 


86  Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers. 

may  it  be  really  begun  ?  The  little  Germans  of  Froebel  were 
to  commence  at  four  years ;  ours  a  little  later,  doubtless.  I  be- 
lieve that  our  little  girls  (much  better  than  the* boys)  may,  by 
their  kindness  and  tenderness  for  the  baby  plant,  undertake  to 
wait  for  it,  to  spare  it,  and  train  it.  As  soon  as  one  attempt  has 
succeeded,  as  soon  as  they  have  seen,  admired,  touched,  kissed 
the  little  being,  everything  is  accomplished.  They  are  so  eager 
to  repeat  the  miracle  that  they  become  patient. 

The  child's  true  life  is  in  the  fields ;  but  even  in  town  she 
should,  as  much  as  possible,  be  familiarized  with  vegetable  life. 

And  for  this,  neither  a  grand  garden  nor  a  park  is  necessary. 
She  who  has  little,  loves  it  the  more — though  it  be  only  a 
wall-flower  on  her  balcony,  and  that  an  extension  of  the  roof; 
and  she  will  profit  more  by  her  single  plant  than  the  spoiled 
child  of  the  rich,  let  loose  in  great  parterres  which  she  has  only 
learned  to  destroy.  The  care  and  assiduous  contemplation  of 
this  flower,  the  relations  which  shall  be  pointed  out  to  her, 
between  her  plant  and  such  or  such  an  influence  of  the  atmo- 
sphere or  season — with  these  alone  her  entire  education  may 
be  carried  on.  Observation,  experience,  reflection,  reasoning, 
will  all  come  of  it.  Who  does  not  know  the  admirable  les- 
sons Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre  derived  from  the  strawberry- 
plant  that  grew  by  chance  in  a  pot  on  his  window  ?  In  it  he 
saw  the  infinite,  and  mr.  le  it  the  beginning  of  his  vegetable 
harmonies,  simple,  popular,  childlike,  but  not  the  less  scientific. 
(See  Alex,  von  Humboldt.) 

A  flower  is  a  whole  world,  pure,  innocent,  peace-making ; 
the  little  human  flower  harmonizes  with  it  so  much  the  better 
for  not  being  like  it  in  its  essential  point.  Woman,  especially 
the  female  child,  is  all  nervous  life;  and  so  the  plant,  which 
has  no  nerves,  is  a  sweet  companion  to  it,  calming  and  re- 
freshing it,  in  a  relative  innocence. 

It  is  true  that  this  plant,  when  in  blossom,  excited  beyond  its 
strength,  seems  to  be  animalized.  And  in  certain  microscopic 
species,  it  assumes  in  the  organ  of  love  a  surprising  identity 
with  the  higher  order  of  being  ;  but  the  child  knows  nothing 


Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers.  87 

of  this  beautiful  delirium  of  plants,  except  from  their  intoxica- 
ting odor,  and  her  constant  motion  prevents  her  from  imbibing 
that  too  long. 

The  little  girl,  who  at  an  early  age  is  so  complete  a  being, 
much  more  delicate  than  the  boy,  more  susceptible  to  nice 
impressions,  has  one  sense  the  more — that  of  perfumes,  of 
aromas.  She  could  be  penetrated  by  them  and  sometime 
enjoy  a  sensual  expansion ;  but  this  flower  is  not  for  her  an 
object  of  idle  love,  of  indolent  enjoyment ;  it  is  a  necessity 
for  labor  and  activity,  an  object  of  anxiety,  success,  and  joy, 
an  occupation  for  her  heart  and  mind.  In  fine,  and  in  a 
word ;  maternity  cures  love  /  the  flower  is  not  her  lover, 
because  it  is  her  daughter. 


It  is  a  bad  and  dangerous  intoxication  for  the  sedentary 
little  lady,  deprived  of  fresh  air  and  exercise,  to  inhale  in  a 
parlor  the  concentrated  emanations  from  an  amorous  bou- 
quet of  flowers.  And  it  is  not  only  her  head  that  grows 
dizzy  ;  one  of  our  novelists  has  undertaken  to  show  the 
doubtful  virtue  of  a  young  woman  who  yields  to  such  influ- 
ences. They  would  no  less  powerfully  trouble  the  little  girl, 
by  hastening  the  sensual  crisis,  and  forcing  the  blossom  that 
should  rather  be  delayed. 

Shall  I  confess  (but  what  a  paradox !  how  shocking  to  the 
ladies !)  There  are  three  things  that  I  rather  dislike :  those 
babels  of  paintings,  called  museums,  where  the  pictures  kill 
off  each  other ; — those  babels  of  warbling,  called  aviaries, 
where  the  nightingale,  associated  with  vulgar  singers,  is  in  a 
fair  way  to  fall  into  a  patois ; — and  those  babels  of  flowers, 
called  bouquets,  made  up  of  all  perfumes  and  colors,  which 
conflict  with  and  annihilate  each  other. 

Whoever  has  a  vivid  and  delicate  sense  of  life  does  not 
with  impunity  submit  to  such  confusions,  such  a  chaos  of  things, 
however  brilliant  they  may  be.  Every  odor  has  its  own  fra- 
grance, its  own  mystery,  and  speaks  its  own  language.  All 


88  Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers. 

together,  they  either  shock  the  brain  or  trouble  the  senses — 
from  which  the  nerves  suffer,  as  by  certain  vibrations  of  the 
harmonica.  It  is  voluptuous  and  cloying ;  we  smile,  but  our 
hearts  turn  from  it.  The  discrete  odors  perish  barbarously, 
as  by  asphyxia.  "Alas !"  says  the  sweet  marjoram,  stifled 
by  the  powerful  rose,  "  you  will  then  never  know  the  divinely 
bitter  fragrance  which  is  mingled  with  the  perfume  of  love  ?" 

A  certain  woman,  I  knew  well,  never  plucked  a  flower 
without  regret,  and  in  spite  of  herself — asking  pardon  of  it. 
Each  has  its  own  peculiar  pretty  way,  if  it  is  peculiar.  It  has 
its  special  harmony,  a  charm  it  derives  from  its  mother 
earth,  and  which  shall  never  be  taken  from  it.  In  a  bouquet 
what  would  become  of  its  ways,  its  graceful  curves,  the  sweet 
and  jaunty  air  with  which  it  carried  its  head  ?  The  simple 
flowers,  which  are  the  flowers  of  love,  with  their  lithe  and 
modest  graces,  grow  pale  or  disappear  amid  the  grand  corollas 
of  those  luxurious  virgins,  that  our  gardeners  develop  by 
their  skill. 

Let  us  then  restore  to  our  child  the  vegetable  world,  in  all 
its  naive  and  sacred  truth.  While  it  is  yet  young,  let  it  feel, 
love,  and  comprehend,  the  plant  in  its  proper  and  complete 
life.  Let  it  know  the  flower,  not  as  a  luxury  and  a  coquetry, 
but  as  one  stage  of  the  plant's  existence,  as  the  plant  itself  in 
blossom.  It  is  a  great  injustice  to  court  it  with  the  fleeting 
pleasures  of  a  vain  adornment,  such  as  an  artificial  flower,  and 
forget  the  marvellous  reality,  the  progressive  miracle  hidden 
in  a  tiny  sanctuary,  the  sublime  elaboration  of  a  future  and 
an  immortality,  by  which  life  every  year  escapes,  and  laughs 
at  death. 

Taking  a  winter  walk,  in  February,  the  little  one,  looking 
at  the  red  buds  on  the  trees,  sighs  and  says :  "  How  soon  will 
it  be  spring  ?»  Suddenly  she  cries  out,  for  she  has  it  at  her 
very  feet — a  little  silver  bell  with  a  green  border,  the  snow- 
drop, announces  the  reawakening  of  the  year. 

Soon  the  sun  resumes  his  strength.  To  his  first  changeful 
and  capricious  rays,  in  March,  a  whole  little  world  awakes — 


Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers.  89 

the  jeunettes,  violets,  primroses,  and  daisies, — the  flower- 
children  which,  from  their  little  golden  disks,  are  called  the 
children  of  the  sun.  They  have  not  strong  perfumes — except, 
I  believe,  the  violet  only.  The  earth  is  too  moist  as  yet ;  the 
hyacinth,  jacinth,  and  lily  of  the  valley,  seem  almost  wet  in 
the  humid  shade  of  the  woods. 

How  delightful,  how  surprising  !  This  innocent  vegetation 
seems  created  expressly  for  our  little  girl,  and  every  day  she 
makes  conquests  from  it,  collecting,  arranging,  and  binding  to- 
gether the  bundles  of  little  flowers  that  she  must  throw  away 
to-morrow.  One  by  one  she  salutes  each  new-comer,  and  gives 
it  a  sister's  kiss.  We  will  not  disturb  her  in  her  festival  of 
spring.  But  when,  after  a  month  or  two,  she  is  satisfied,  I  will 
tell  her :  "  While  you  have  been  playing  at  nature,  my  child, 
the  proud  and  splendid  transformation  of  the  Earth  has  been 
accomplished.  She  has  now  put  on  her  green  robe,  with 
the  immense  flounces  that  we  call  hills  and  mountains.  Think 
you  it  is  only  to  give  you  daisies,  that  she  has  poured  from 
her  bosom  an  ocean  of  herbs  and  flowers  ?  "No,  my  pet :  the 
good  nurse,  the  universal  mamma,  has  first  served  up  a  banquet 
to  our  humbler  brothers  and  sisters,  who  are  our  support. 
The  good  cow,  and  the  gentle  sheep,  the  sober  goat  that 
lives  on  so  little  and  helps  the  poorest  to  live, — for  them  were 
these  meadows  spread.  With  the  virginal  milk  of  the  earth 
they  will  load  their  udders,  to  give  you  cream  and  butter. — 
Take,  and  be  thankful." 

To  these  fresh  and  sweet  supplies  are  to  be  added  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  first  potherbs,  and  the  earliest  fruits.  With  the 
increasing  heat  appear  in  due  season  the  currant  and  the 
mild  strawberry,  which  our  little  gourmand  detects  by  their 
exquisite  fragrance.  The  tartness  of  the  former,  the  melting 
lusciousness  of  the  latter,  and  the  delicate  sweetness  of  the 
cherry,  are  the  refreshments  sent  to  us  in  the  burning  days, 
when  the  rising  heats  of  summer  enervate  us,  or  when  beneath 
an  overpowering  sun  the  labors  of  harvesting  begin. 

This  intoxication  first  appears  in  the  rich  but  too  penetrat- 


90  Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers. 

ing  perfume  of  the  rose,  which  gets  in  the  head.  The  coquet- 
tish queen  of  flowers  triumphantly  leads  in  the  legions  of  her 
more  serious  sisters — the  medicinal  flowers  and  pharmaceutic 
plants,  useful  and  saving  poisons. 

But  in  the  sovereign  labors  of  the  great  Maternity,  come 
next  those  which  are  to  nourish  entire  populations — the 
venerable  tribes  of  the  leguminosce ;  and  the  grasses  also, 
the  poor  of  the  vegetable  kingdom,  who,  as  Linna3us  says, 
are  its  irresistible  valor  and  heroic  force ;  though  they  be 
maltreated  and  trampled  down,  yet  will  they  multiply  the 
more ! 

"Their  two  nutritious  leaves  (cotyledons)  are  as  a  mother's 
breasts.  Five  or  six  poor  grasses,  with  the  abundant  fulness 
of  these  breasts,  support  the  human  race."  (E.  Noel.) 

My  daughter,  do  not  imitate  the  thoughtless,  giddy  child 
who,  where  a  sea  of  gold  rolls  in  the  wind,  of  corn-poppies  and 
blue-bonnets  in  their  sterile  splendor,  goes  in  to  pluck  them. 
Let  not  your  little  foot  stray  from  the  strict  and  narrow 
line  of  the  path.  Respect  our  nutritive  father,  the  reve- 
rend Corn,  whose  feeble  stalk  scarcely  supports  his  head 
heavy  with  bread  for  to-morrow.  Every  ear  you  destroy  is 
so  much  taken  from  the  life  of  the  poor  and  worthy  laborer, 
who  the  whole  year  round  has  suffered,  that  it  might  thrive. 

Even  the  lot  of  the  corn  itself  deserves  your  tenderest  respect. 
All  the  winter  long,  shut  up  in  the  earth,  it  patiently  waited 
under  the  snow ;  then,  in  the  cold  spring  rains,  its  little  green 
shoot  struggled  upward,  wounded,  now  by  a  nip  from  the 
frost,  now  by  a  bite  from  the  sheep ;  and  it  has  thriven  only 
by  enduring  the  smarting  rays  of  the  sun.  To-morrow,  cut 
down  by  the  sickle,  beaten  and  again  beaten  by  flails,  broken 
and  crushed  by  mill-stones,  the  hapless  martyr,  reduced  to  an 
impalpable  powder,  will  be  cooked  into  bread,  and  eaten,  or 
brewed  into  beer,  and  drunk.  Whichever  way,  its  death  is 
life  to  man. 

All  nations,  in  joyous  hymns,  have  sung  its  martyrdom, 
and  the  martyrdom  of  the  vine,  its  sister.  Even  in  the  corr 


Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers.  91 

resided,  in  the  most  concentrated  nutritive  form  our  climatea 
afford,  something  of  the  sweetening,  intoxicating  property  its 
sister  brought  us.  The  property  of  sugar-making,  a  singular 
process  of  the  human  organization,  exists  in  these  vegetables, 
which  may,  therefore,  be  said  to  be  humanized. 

Such  is  the  last  effort  of  the  year;  when  man  wearies,  grows 
feeble,  and  languishingly  perspires,  mother  nature  affords  him 
a  more  vital  nourishment. 


To  the  vernal  age  of  fields  and  milk  succeeds  the  substantial 
and  strong  age  of  wheat;  and  that  is  scarcely  reaped  and 
thrashed,  when  the  humble  little  vine — trailing  and  creeping, 
because  so  much  more  delicate  and  tender — prepares  its 

i  heaven-bestowed  beverage.     What  labors  here,  my  daughter! 

|  And  what  power  over  man  does  not  this  modest  plant  exert, 
this  ugly,  little,  tortuous  shrub,  that  you  despised  in  the 

.i  spring !     If  you  went  through  all  Champagne,  Burgundy,  and 

;  the  South,  you  would  find  perhaps  a  quarter  of  the  popula- 
tion of  France,  millions  of  men,  engaged,  from  the  month  of 
March,  in  setting  the  props,  raising,  binding,  and  pruning 
the  vine,  and  heaping  the  earth  around  it;  all  the  year  on 
foot,  leading  the  delicate  creature  to  perfection.  To  kill  it, 
a  mere  mist  is  enough. 

Ever  the  harsh  alternative — life  or  death.  Every  plant 
must  die  to  give  life  to  others.  Have  you  not  observed,  near 

;  the  close  of  autumn,  when  the  season  is  growing  pale,  how 
gently  the  leaves  fall,  without  even  waiting  for  the  wind  ? 
Each,  with  a  few  turns,  drops,  wholly  resigned,  no  noise, 
and  no  resistance.  The  plant,  whether  it  clearly  knows  it 
or  not,  at  least  feels,  that  its  office  is  to  nourish  its  sister,  that 
to  this  end  it  must  die.  And  so  dying  gracefully,  it  falls  to 
earth,  and,  by  nurturing  with  its  debris  the  air  that  wafts  it 
or  the  earth  into  which  it  penetrates,  prepares  the  life  of  its 
friends,  who  are  coming  to  renew  it,  to  reproduce  and  restore  it. 


92  Love  at  Ten  Years. — Flowers. 

It  disappears  consoled,  and  (who  knows  ?)  perhaps  to  rest — its 
duty  done,  and  the  law  of  God  fulfilled. 

Thus,  dear,  if  you  have  understood  me,  you  have  seen  that 
beneath  this  brilliant  circle  of  annual  evolutions,  in  which 
each  for  a  moment  takes  her  place  in  the  sun,  there  is  another 
circle,  sombre  and  mute,  constituted  in  the  depths  of  being 
by  sweet  sisterly  interchanges,  each  unenviously  retiring  to 
transfer  her  life  to  the  others. 

A  world  of  peace,  innocence,  and  resignation !  But  the  supe- 
rior beings,  subject  to  the  same  law,  rarely  yield  themselves 
to  it  so  completely. — "  Nevertheless,"  says  nature,  "  what  is 
to  be  done  ?  it  is  not  my  fault.  I  have  only  so  much  sub- 
stance, and  no  more,  to  share  among  you  all ;  I  cannot  increase 
it  at  will.  It  is  but  just  that  each  in  turn  should  have  a  little.'* 

Therefore,  she  says  to  the  animals,  "  You,  the  favorites  of 
life,  so  privileged  by  a  superior  organization,  are  not  by  that 
exempt  from  nourishing  your  sisters  the  plants,  which,  grate- 
ful and  graceful,  daily  nourish  you  in  advance.  It  is  yours 
to  pay  tribute,  but  only  of  that  which  is  worthless  to  your- 
selves— your  sloughs  at  certain  seasons — your  remains  in 
death.  .  .  .  That  may  be  as  late  as  possible ;  I  have  shown  you 
how  to  retard  it.  But  it  must  certainly  come  one  day ;  for 
I  could  do  no  better." 

This  is  but  reasonable ;  is  it  not,  my  daughter  ?  And  the 
Father  of  nature,  God,  who  made  and  endowed  you,  who  has 
given  you  skilful  hands  (or  fitted  to  become  so),  who  has 
given  you  a  head,  as  yet  light,  but  gradually  recipient  of 
thoughts,  grants  you  the  distinguished  honor  of  sharing  in 
his  labors.  You  shall  germinate  vegetable  nurselings,  and 
little  daughter-flowers ;  you  shall  build  up  life,  by  partici- 
pating in  the  grand  operations  of  God;  and  afterwards,  a 
woman,  and  perhaps  a  mother,  when  your  time  shall  come, 
you  shall  cheerfully  transfer  your  life  to  others,  and  with  a 
grateful  grace  vivify  your  good  nurse,  nature,  and  nourish  her 
in  your  turn. 


The  Little  Household. — The  Little  Garden.   93 
VIII. 

THE    LITTLE    HOUSEHOLD. THE    LITTLE    GARDEN. 

IF  a  choice  of  playthings  be  offered  to  a  little  girl,  she  will 
certainly  select  miniature  utensils  of  cooking  and  housekeep- 
ing. That  is  her  natural  instinct,  a  presentiment  of  the  duties 
the  woman  will  have  to  fulfil ;  for  she  must  nourish  the  man. 

An^  elevated  and  sacred  duty — especially  in  our  climate, 
where  the  sun,  less  powerful  than  at  the  equator,  does  not 
complete  the  maturity  of  many  vegetables,  does  not  ripen 
•them  sufficiently  to  make  them  digestible  by  man.  So  woman 
completes  the  work  of  the  sun ;  she  knows  how  the  food, 
cooked  and  softened,  will  be  assimilated  by  him,  will  pass  into 
:  his  circulation,  to  restore  his  blood  and  his  strength. 

It  is  like  another  nursing ;  if  she  could  gratify  her  heart, 
she  would  feed  her  husband  and  her  children  on  the  milk 
of  her  breasts.  Unable  to  do  that,  she  borrows  aliment  from 
nature,  but  brings  it  to  them  greatly  changed,  mingled  with 
herself,  and  made  delicious  with  her  tenderness.  From  pure 
wheat,  solid  and  strong,  she  prepares  the  sacred  cake,  by 
which  the  family  partake  of  her  love.  Milk  takes  a  hundred 
forms  from  her ;  she  puts  into  it  her  delicate  sweetness  and 
her  fragrance,  and  it  becomes  a  light  and  etherial  cream,  a 
most  luxurious  dish.  The  ephemeral  fruits  that  Autumn 
lavishes,  as  though  to  get  rid  of  them,  she  fixes  as  by  enchant- 
ment. Next  year  her  astonished  children  will  see,  brought 
forth  from  the  treasury  of  her  foresight,  the  fugitive  delights 
which  they  supposed  had  perished  before  the  first  snows. 
There  they  are,  made  after  her  own  image — faithful  and  unal- 
terable, pure  and  limpid  as  her  life,  transparent  as  her  heart. 

O  the  sweet  and  beautiful  faculty!  The  child-bearing! 
The  slow,  partial,  but  continuous  creation,  day  "by  day  ! — She 
makes  and  remakes  them,  body  and  soul,  temper  and  energy. 
She  increases  or  diminishes  their  activity,  stretches  01 


94   The  Little  Household.— The  Little  Garden. 

slackens  their  nerves.  The  changes  are  insensible,  but  the 
results  certain.  What  can  she  not  do?  The  giddy  child, 
playful  and  rebellious,  becomes  pliable,  disciplinable,  and  soft. 
The  man,  down-borne  by  labor  and  excess  of  effort,  is  gradually 
rejuvenated  by  her.  In  the  morning,  out  of  a  heart  full  of  love, 
he  says:  "  I  live  again,  wholly  in  thee.'' 

Besides,  when  this,  her  great  power,  is  wisely  exercised, 
e!ie  has  no  occasion  to  restore,  to  cure.  She  is  the  perfect 
physician,  creating,  day  by  day,  health  and  harmonious  equi- 
librium, and  barring  the  door  against  disease.  Thinking 
of  that,  what  woman's,  what  mother's  heart,  could  haggle 
and  find  fault  with  nature. 

Love  is  an  idealist,  and  in  all  that  is  essential  to  the  life  of 
its  beloved  it  sees  only  spirit.  The  noble  and  high  results, 
which  these  humble  cares  procure,  elevate  and  ennoble  them, 
and  make  them  sweet  and  dear. 

A  young  lady  of  distinction,  delicate  and  sickly,  would 
never  allow  any  one  else  to  feed  her  nightingale.  That 
winged  artist  is  like  man — to  refresh  its  burning  throat,  it 
would  like  the  marrow  of  lions;  it  must  have  meats  and 
blood.  This  lady's  servant  found  the  task  repugnant;  but 
she,  not  at  all ;  she  saw  in  it  only  the  song,  the  soul  of  love, 
to  which  she  imparted  strength.  It  received  from  her  hand 
the  banquet  of  inspiration  (love,  hemp,  and  poppy  seeds),  life, 
intoxication,  and  forgetfulness. 


Fourier  has  well  remarked  that  children  have  a  taste  for 
cooking,  and  like  to  take  part  in  it.  Is  it  mimicry  or  gluttony  ? 

But  I  do  not  mean  to  encourage  mimicry,  as  he  advises. 
Nor,  since  it  is  to  become  so  grave  a  matter,  would  I  have 
the  child  make  sport  of  it,  and  waste  her  time  in  foolish  little 
preparations  for  her  doll's  repast.  I  would  prefer  that,  after  a 
time,  when  her  attempts  at  gardening  shall  have  made  her 
skilful,  her  mother  initiate  her  in  some  duty  in  which  the 


The  Little  Household. — The  Little  Garden.   95 

life  of  her  father  is  interested,  by  which  he  who  supports 
them  may  be  nourished  by  them,  by  which  the  child  may  for 
the  first  time  serve  him,  and  be  made  happy  by  his  "  Thank 
you,  my  daughter,"  at  the  table. 

Every  art  developes  new  qualities  in  us.  Housekeeping 
and  cooking  demand,  in  a  high  degree,  the  most  exquisite 
neatness,  and  a  certain  dexterity.  An  even  temper  and  a 
gentle  character  contribute  much  more  to  them  than  we  sup- 
pose. No  one  who  is  rough  and  fickle  can  manage  such 
things  well.  A  just  sense  of  precision  is  essential;  and  also, 
in  the  highest  degree,  an  appropriate  decision  of  character — to 
control  one's  self,  and  know  where  to  stop. 

Observe  the  more  important  endowments  which  the  culture 
of  the  garden  demands.  At  first  it  was  only  an  amusement ; 
but  as  soon  as  it  is  understood  and  studied,  in  its  relation  to 
the  life  and  health  of  loved  ones,  as  soon  as  the  garden  has 
become  auxiliary  to  the  cuisine,  it  assumes  an  important 
aspect,  and  is  much  better  cultivated.  To  notice,  and  take 
account  of,  a  thousand  variable  circumstances ;  to  respect  the 
weather,  and  control  her  childish  impatience;  to  subject  her 
will  to  great  laws ;  to  be  active,  but  to  know  that  her  own 
activity  is  not  everything ;  to  recognise  the  concurrent  agen- 
cies of  nature ;  and,  finally,  to  fail  often  and  not  be  dis- 
couraged— such  is  gardening  to  her — a  labor  made  up  of  all 
labors ;  human  life  complete. 

The  kitchen  and  the  garden  are  but  two  departments  of  the 
same  laboratory,  working  to  the  same  end.  The  first  com- 
pletes by  fire  the  maturing  process  which  the  other  began  in 
the  sun.  They  interchange  kind  offices ;  the  garden  supplies 
the  kitchen,  and  the  kitchen  supplies  the  garden.  The  slops 
that  are  thrown  out  almost  with  disgust,  are  accepted  (if  I 
may  believe  an  eminent  horticulturist)  as  choice  aliment,  by 
pure  and  noble  flowers.  Therefore,  despise  nothing.  The 
meanest  refuse,  even  the  dregs  of  coffee,  are  eagerly  absorbed 
by  vegetables,  as  a  flame,  a  spirit  of  life ;  three  whole  years 
may  pass,  and  still  they  will  feel  its  warmth. 


96   The  Little  Household. — The  Little  Garden. 

Let  me  instruct  your  child  in  these  necessary  laws  of  life. 
It  would  be  a  foolish  reserve  to  leave  her  ignorant  of  the 
transformation  of  substances,  and  their  natural  circulation. 
Our  disdainful  young  ladies,  who  know  plants  only  to  pluck 
them,  are  not  aware  that  the  vegeteble  consumes  as  much  as 
the  animal.  How  do  they  live,  themselves  ?  They  never  think 
of  that;  they  have  a  good  appetite,  and  they  absorb,  but 
without  gratitude,  without  a  thought  for  the  duty  of  restitu- 
tion. Nevertheless,  they  must  make  restitution,  by  death 
especially;  and  they  must  make  it  continually  by  the  pro- 
cesses of  perspiration,  sloughs,  and  diminutions  of  themselves 
• — the  losses  and  the  little  daily  deaths  which  nature  imposes 
on  us,  to  the  profit  of  the  lower  orders  of  life. 

This  fatal  circulus  is  certainly  not  without  its  grandeur.  It 
has  one  very  grave  aspect,  by  which  the  child's  heart  will  be 
touched  with  a  salutary  emotion :  namely,  that  our  weakness 
daily  condemns  us  to  seek  strength  where  it  is  accumulated, 
in  our  brethren  the  animals,  and  to  live  on  their  life. 

A  double  lesson  this,  by  no  means  useless  to  the  young  girl, 
in  that  first  impulse  of  pride,  proper  to  her  youth,  her  beauty, 
and  intensity  of  life,  which  sometimes  make  her  think,  "  I  am ; 
the  rest  is  nothing.  The  flower  and  the  charm  of  the  world  is 
myself,  and  all  else  is  but  refuse." 

Flower,  beauty,  youth  ?  Agreed.  But  do  not  forget  the 
cost  of  them.  Be  modest ;  remember  the  humble  and  severe 
conditions  on  which  nature  parts  with  life:  to  die  a  little 
daily,  before  dying  utterly;  and  every  day,  at  this  happy, 
loaded  table,  to  be  born  again — alas !  by  the  deaths  of  inno- 
cent creatures. 

At  least  let  these  animals  be  happy  as  long  as  they  live. 
Teach  the  child  of  their  right  to  exist,  and  the  regret  and 
pity  we  owe  them,  even  when  the  needs  of  our  organization 
compel  us  to  destroy  them.  Carefully  teach  her  the  uses  they 
all  have,  or  had — even  those  that  to-day  may  harm  us.  The 
child  is  very  poetical,  but  not  much  of  a  poet.  Nevertheless 
our  little  one  will  feel,  by  the  instinct  of  her  charming  heart, 


The  Little  Household.— The  Little  Garden.   97 

much  that  would  hardly  impress  her  mind.  The  heroic 
maternity  of  the  bird,  constructing  its  nest  with  so  much 
pains,  submitting,  for  its  children's  sake,  to  so  many  sore 
trials,  will  certainly  strike  her.  And  in  the  ant  and  bee  she 
will  see,  not  without  respect,  and  a  sort  of  religion,  a  very 
different  artistic  genius  from  that  which  maternity  inspires. 
The  colossal  labors  of  the  ant,  raising  or  lowering  its  eggs, 
by  the  well-calculated  scale  of  its  thirty  or  forty  stories, 
according  to  the  air  and  sun,  and  all  the  variations  of  tempe- 
rature, will  fill  her  with  admiration.  In  these  infinitely  little 
things,  she  will  catch  the  first  gleam,  the  first  delightful  ray, 
of  the  great  mystery,  which  is  postponed  for  her, — the  great, 
the  universal  Love. 


Knowing  that  there  is  but  one  happiness  here  below,  that 
of  creating,  ahyays  creating,  I  have  endeavored  at  all  times 
to  make  her  happy,  by  inducing  her  to  create. 

"When  she  was  four  years  old,  I  put  materials  into  her  pretty 
hands,  regular  forms  (analogous  to  those  first  attempts  at  asso- 
ciation that  nature  makes  in  crystals),  and  with  these  wooden 
crystals,  joined  in  her  own  way,  she  erected  little  houses  and 
other  baby  structures. 

Afterward,  she  was  shown  how  nature,  bringing  opposites 
together  in  sympathy,  makes  veritable  crystals,  brilliant, 
colored,  and  so  beautiful !  She  has  made  some  herself. 

From  that  time,  with  her  own  hand,  she  has  sowed  seeds  and 
made  plants,  and  by  her  care  in  tending  and  watering  them, 
has  brought  them  to  live  and  blossom. 

For  silk-worms,  she  innocently  collects  the  little  grains,  the 
seedlings  of  the  butterfly  ;  these  she  tends,  and  keeps  always 
about  her,  nurturing  them  with  her  warmth,  and  protecting 
them  night  and  day  in  her  unformed  bosom.  Some  morning 
she  has  the  happiness  to  see  a  new  world,  disclosed  to  her  by 
her  own  young  love. 

5 


98  The  Maternities  of  Fourteen. 

Thus  she  goes  on,  creating  and  happy.  Continue  to  have 
children,  my  daughter.  Associate  yourself,  dear  little  one, 
with  the  great  Maternity.  It  costs  your  tender  heart  nothing. 
You  create  in  profound  peace.  To-morrow,  it  will  cost  you 
more,  and  your  heart  will  bleed. — Mine  also  ;  ah !  believe 
that  well.  But  for  to-day,  let  us  enjoy.  Nothing  is  more  plea- 
sant to  me  than  to  observe,  in  such  complete  repose,  in  such 
touching  innocence,  your  little  fecundities.  They  reassure 
me  for  your  lot ;  whatever  may  happen,  you  will  have  had 
your  part  in  this  world,  participating  in  the  divine  work,  and 
creating. 


IX. 

THE  MATERNITIES  OF  FOURTEEN. THE  METAMORPHOSIS. 

I  HAVE  feared  but  one  thing  for  this  child :  and  that  is, 
secresy  ;  I  know  some  who  are  pensive  at  four  years  of 
age.  But  happily  she  has  been  preserved  from  that :  first,  by 
her  active  life  ;  and  then,  because  from  her  birth  she  has  had 
a  confidante  in  her  mother,  so  that  she  could  think  aloud. 

Woman,  all  her  life  long,  must  overflow  and  discharge  her- 
self. While  yet  she  was  very  little,  her  mother  took  her  in 
her  lap  every  night,  and,  heart  to  heart,  made  her  speak. 

Ah  !  what  a  happiness  to  confess,  to  excuse,  or  even  accuse 
one's  self.  "  So  talk  my  child,  talk  on  !  If  it  is  good  I  will 
embrace  you.  And,  if  it  is  not  good,  why,  to-morrow  we 
will  both  try  to  do  better." 

So  she  tells  everything  ;  what  does  she  risk  ?  Much  ;  "  for 
mamma  will  suffer,  if  I  have  been  bad." — "  No,  my  dear — tell 
me  all  the  same ;  and  even  if  it  makes  me  cry,  your  heart 
shall  flow  with  mine." 

Her  filial  confession  is  the  whole  mystery  of  childhood.   By 


The  Maternities  of  Fourteen.  .J9 

this  confession  she  has  every  evening  suggested  her  own  edu- 
cation. 

On  so  soft  a  pillow  her  sleep  is  deep  ;  but,  what  then  ?  She 
wakes  at  last.  Thirteen  years  and  a  half  have  passed,  and  she 
is  drooping.  What  is  the  matter,  darling  ?  Until  now,  you 
have  lacked  nothing  for  your  amusement.  When  your  own 
doll  did  not  satisfy  you,  I  gave  you  living  ones ;  you  have 
played  at  doll  with  all  nature ;  you  have  loved  flowers  much, 
and  been  loved  by  them ;  your  free  birds  follow  you,  even  to 
forgetting  their  nests ;  and  the  other  day  the  bulfinch  (this  is 
no  invention)  left  its  mate  for  you. 

I  guess — you  need  a  friend ;  neither  bird  nor  flower,  but- 
terfly nor  dog — but  a  friend  like  yourself. 

When  she  was  four  or  five  years  old,  her  mother  always 
took  her  to  play  in  the  Jardins  d"1  Enfants.  But  now,  in  the 
countiy,  she  has  no  more  little  girls.  To  be  sure,  there  is  her 
brother,  younger  than  herself,  whom  once  she  loved  so  much, 
and  who  clung  to  her.  But  now  she  would  have  him  be  a  girl, 
or  he  would  like  her  better  if  she  were  a  boy. 

To  get  him  away  from  the  excessive  cares  of  his  mother  and 
sister,  and  under  more  masculine  influences,  he  was  placed  in 
the  house  of  a  friend,  until  he  went  to  the  public  schools.  The 
boys  he  brought  home  with  him  have  rendered  the  house  un- 
inhabitable. My  little  girl  has  conceived  a  great  antipathy  to 
the  blustering  race.  Their  cries,  blows,  and  scuffles  frighten 
her.  Like  her  gentle  and  discreet  mother,  she  loves  order, 
peace,  silence — or  pretty  games  in  a  low  tone. 

Meantime,  I  see  her  walking  by  herself  in  a  garden-path, 
and  I  call  her  to  me.  Always  obedient,  she  comes — but  rather 
slowly,  her  heart  swollen,  and  her  eyes  moist.  What  is  the 
matter  ?  In  vain  does  her  mother  kiss  and  caress  her  :  she  is 
dumb,  and  cannot  reply,  for  she  knows  not  what  it  is.  We, 
who  understand  her  case,  must  find  a  remedy  for  it— the  one 
which  at  all  times  has  succeeded  with  her ;  we  will  give  her  a 
new  love. 

Her  mother  who  pities  her  very  much,  tries  from  that  day 


loo  The  Maternities  of  Fourteen. 

to  draw  her  out  of  her  troubled  state,  by  placing  in  her  arms 
not  a  thing  but  a  person. 

She  will  forthwith  take  her  to  the  village  school,  and  show 
ner  the  little  children.  At  first  the  young  dreamer,  the  great 
girl,  finds  the  poor  creatures  somewhat  insipid ;  but  she  is 
shown  that  they  have  not  everything  they  need :  this  one  is 
very  scantily  clad ;  that  one  needs  a  new  dress ;  this  one  has 
come  to  school  without  her  breakfast,  because  her  mother  has 
no  bread ;  that  one  has  no  mother,  and  her  father,  too,  is  dead ; 
at  four  years  of  age  she  is  alone,  and  is  provided  for  just  as  it 
may  happen.  Our  darling's  young  heart  awakes  at  this.  With- 
out a  word,  she  takes  the  child,  and  begins  to  arrange  her  dress. 
She  is  not  unskilful ;  one  would  think  she  had  handled  children 
all  her  life.  She  washes  her,  kisses  her,  and  brings  her  bread, 
butter,  fruit,  and  everything  she  has.  Werther  fell  in  love 
with  Charlotte  at  seeing  her  give  a  slice  of  bread  to  the  chil- 
dren. So  should  I. 

The  little  orphan  interests  her  in  the  others.  One  is  pretty, 
another  so  knowing ;  one  has  been  sick,  another  beaten,  and 
must  be  consoled.  They  all  please  her,  all  amuse  her.  What  a 
pleasure  to  play  with  such  delightful  dolls,  that  speak,  and  laugh, 
and  eat,  have  wills  of  their  own,  and  are  almost  people !  What 
a  pleasure  to  make  them  play  !  And,  with  this  idea,  she  goes 
to  playing  herself — the  great  innocent  baby  !  Even  at  home 
she  thinks  of  them ;  and  the  more  she  thinks,  the  livelier  she 
becomes.  At  once  gay  and  serious — as  is  always  the  case  when 
one  has  suddenly  a  great  interest  in  life — she  no  longer  walks 
in  solitude ;  but  seeks  her  mother,  talks  with  her,  requires 
her  co-operation,  begs  for  this  favor,  bargains  for  that.  Every 
day  she  spends  all  her  spare  time  with  the  children ;  and 
lives  wholly  within  her  own  little  world,  so  full  of  variety 
for  those  who  see  it  near  at  hand  and  mingle  with  it.  Therein 
she  has  her  friendships,  her  semi-adoptions,  her  preferences — 
her  tendernesses  enhanced  by  charity,  sometimes  little  cares, 
then  joys,  extreme  delights  and  perchance  even  tears.  But 


The  Maternities  of  Fourteen.  101 

she  knows  why  she  weeps ;   and  the  worst  thing  for  young 
girls  is  to  weep  without  knowing  why ! 


She  was  just  fourteen  in  May — those  were  her  first  roses. 
After  a  rain,  the  season,  thenceforth  serene  and  beautiful, 
bloomed  out  in  all  its  glory.  She,  too,  had  experienced  a 
short  interval  of  storms — with  fever  and  some  suffering ;  it  had 
left  her,  for  the  first  time  a  little  weak,  a  little  pale,  while  an 
almost  imperceptible  shade  of  delicate  blue,  or  faint  lilac,  en- 
circled her  eyes.  She  was  not  very  tall;  but  her  figure  had 
changed,  had  gracefully  developed  ;  lying  down  a  child,  in  a 
few  days  she  had  arisen  a  young  woman.  Lighter,  and  yet 
less  active,  she  no  longer  merited  the  names  her  mother  had 
given  her :  "My  bird !  my  butterfly !" 

Her  first  impulse  on  revisiting  her  garden,  changed  and 
grown  beautiful  like  herself,  was  to  gather  some  flowers  for 
her  father  and  mother,  who  had  of  late  petted  her  even  more 
than  usual.  She  rejoined  them  smiling,  with  her  pretty  offer- 
ing ;  and  found  them  much  moved,  saying  nothing  to  each 
other,  but  mute  with  the  same  thought. 

For  the  first  time,  perhaps,  for  a  long  while,  they  placed 
her  between  them.  When  she  was  a  little  thing,  just  learning  to 
walk  alone,  she  needed  to  see  them  thus  within  reach  of  her, 
on  her  right  and  left.  But  now,  almost  as  tall  as  her  mother, 
she  felt,  very  tenderly,  that  it  was  they  who  needed  to  have 
her  between  them.  They  gathered  her  into  their  hearts  with 
a  love  so  profound,  that  her  mother  could  scarce  restrain  her 
tears. 

"  Dear  mamma !  what  is  the  matter  ?" — and  she  threw  her- 
self on  that  dear  bosom.  Her  mother  loaded  her  with  caresses, 
but  did  not  answer,  fearing  to  give  vent  to  her  own  emo- 
tions. At  last,  a  little  composed,  although  tears  still  dimmed 
her  eyes,  Mamma  said,  smiling:  "I  was  telling  your  father 
what  I  dreamed  last  night.  You  were  alone  in  the  garden, 


1O2  The  Maternities  of  Fourteen. 

and  torn  by  the  cruel  thorns  of  a  rose-bush ;  I  wished  to 
bind  up  your  wounds,  but  could  not ;  so  you  were  ruined  for 
life.  I  was  dead,  yet  I  saw  it  all."  "  Oh !  mamma,  then 
never  die !"  And  she  fell,  blushing,  into  her  mother's  arms. 

These  three  persons,  at  that  moment,  were  wholly  united  in 
heart.  But  I  should  not  say  three ! — they  were  one.  Through 
love,  they  existed  in  their  daughter,  she  in  them.  There  was 
no  need  to  speak  a  single  word ;  they  understood  each  other 
so  well.  They  no  longer  saw  each  other  distinctly,  for  it  was 
already  dusk ;  and  they  went  out,  dim  and  shadowy — the 
father  supporting  her  on  his  arm,  the  mother  embracing  the 
little  one,  and  supported  by  her. 

No  longer  could  be  heard  the  songs  of  birds,  but  only  their 
faint  twitterings,  their  last  confidential  chat,  as  they  crowded 
into  the  nest.  These  murmurs  are  very  charming  and  very 
various ;  some  noisy  and  eager,  overjoyed  at  meeting  again ; 
others  very  melancholy,  troubled  by  the  shadows  of  night, 
seemed  to  say  to  each  other,  "  Who  is  sure  of  waking  to-mor- 
row ?"  The  trustful  nightingale  returning  to  its  nest,  almost 
on  the  ground,  crossed  the  court  at  their  very  feet ;  and  the 
mother,  tenderly  moved,  bade  it  good-night :  "  God  keep  thee, 
poor  little  thing !" 


Nothing  is  easier  than  the  revelation  of  sex  to  a  child  thus 
prepared.  For  her  who  is  kept  in  ignorance  of  its  general 
laws,  who  learns  the  whole  mystery  at  once,  it  is  a  serious  and 
a  dangerous  thing.  What  are  we  to  think  of  the  imprudence 
of  those  parents  who  leave  this  revelation  to  chance  ?  For 
what  is  chance  ?  It  is  often  some  companion,  neither  innocent 
nor  of  pure  imagination  ;  oftener  than  would  be  believed,  it 
is  a  flippant  sensual  speech  from  a  boy,  some  near  relative. 
Many  mothers  will  indignantly  deny  this  ;  their  children  are 
all  perfect ; — they  are  so  infatuated  with  their  sons  as  to  dis- 
believe truth  itself. 


History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith.  103 

However  that  may  be,  if  this  mystery  be  not  revealed  by 
the  mother,  it  may  be  overwhelming  and  blasting,  annihilating 
the  judgment.  At  such  a  time,  before  she  recovers  herself, 
the  poor  little  one  is,  as  it  were,  at  any  one's  mercy. 

As  for  her  who  has  early  and  naturally  learned  of  the 
generation  of  plants  and  of  insects,  who  knows  that  in  every 
species  life  renews  itself  from  the  egg,  and  that  all  nature 
is  engaged  in  the  perpetual  labor  of  ovulation,  she  is  not  at 
all  astonished  to  find  herself  subject  to  the  same  common  law. 
The  painful  changes  which  every  month  accompany  the  phe- 
nomenon seem  also  very  natural,  when  she  has  seen  the  same 
laborious  processes  in  the  inferior  creatures. 

All  this  appears  to  her  noble,  grand,  and  pure,  as  it  harmo- 
nizes with  the  general  law  of  creation — grander  still  when  she 
sees  in  it  the  continual  restoration  of  what  death  destroys. 
"  Death  pursues  us,  and  hurries  us  on,  my  dear  child,"  says 
her  mother  ;  "  our  only  defence  is  in  marriage.  Your  father 
and  I  shall  die;  and  to  compensate  for  our  loss,  it  will  be 
necessary  for  you,  probably,  even  before  that  time,  to  leave 
us  and  be  married.  Like  me,  you  will  with  great  pain  give 
birth  to  children,  who  perhaps  will  not  live,  or,  if  they  do  live, 
will  leave  you.  This  is  what  I  foresee,  and  it  makes  me  weep. 
— But  I  am  wrong ;  our  lot  is  in  common  with  that  of  all 
creatures,  and  it  is  God's  will." 


x. 

HISTORY    AS    A    BASIS    OF    FAITH. 

ROUSSEAU,  first  among  the  moderns  to  establish  systems  of 
education,  seems  to  me  not  to  have  seen  clearly  that  a  system 
is  not  everything.  He  is  concerned  only  as  to  the  way  in  which 
the  pupil  may  be  formed ;  or,  rather,  how  the  pupil,  assisted 
LD  his  own  proclivities,  may  form  himself,  and  become  capable 


104  History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith. 

of  learning  everything.  I  am  not  criticizing  his  work ;  I  sim 
ply  remark  that  he  says  not  a  single  word  about  the  second 
problem  of  education :  What  shall  be  the  principal  object  of 
study?  What  shall  this  pupil  be  taught  ?  Suppose  Rousseau 
has  succeeded  in  forming  an  energetic,  active  mind,  inde- 
pendent of  ordinary  routines — to  what  shall  it  apply  itself? 
Is  there  not  some  science  in  which  it  may  find  its  develop- 
ment, its  natural  gymnastics  ?  It  is  not  enough  to  create  the 
subject  /  we  must  determine  the  object  on  which  it  may  be 
exercised  with  the  most  advantage.  I  will  call  this  object, 
the  substance  of  education. 

In  my  opinion,  this  should  be  altogether  different,  as  it  is 
to  be  applied  to  the  boy  or  the  girl. 

If  we  desire  better  results  in  education  than  we  have 
achieved  heretofore,  we  must  gravely  consider  the  incalculable 
differences  which  not  only  separate  but  even  oppose  the  two 
sexes — which  constitute  them  harmonious  opponents. 

Their  vocations  and  natural  tendencies  differ ;  so  should 
their  education  differ — differ  in  method — harmonizing  for  the 
girl,  strengthening  for  the  boy, — differ  in  its  object,  as  to  the 
principal  study  on  which  the  mind  should  be  exercised. 

For  man,  who  is  called  to  labor,  to  battle  with  the  world, 
the  great  study  is  History,  the  story  of  this  combat — history 
aided  by  languages,  in  each  of  which  is  the  genius  of  a  people 
— history  prompted  by  Right,  writing  under  and  for  it,  con- 
stantly inspired,  revised,  and  corrected  by  eternal  Justice. 

For  woman,  the  gentle  mediator  between  nature  and  man, 
between  father  and  child,  the  study,  thoroughly  practical,  reju- 
venating, and  embellishing,  is  Nature. 

The  man  passes  from  drama  to  drama,  not  one  of  which  re- 
sembles another,  from  experience  to  experience,  from  battle  to 
battle.  History  goes  forth,  ever  far-reaching,  and  continually 
crying  to  him :  "  Forward  !" 

The  woman,  on  the  contrary,  follows  the  noble  and  serene 
epic  that  Nature  chants  in  her  harmonious  cycles,  repeating 
herself  with  a  touching  grace  of  constancy  and  fidelity.  These 


History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith.  105 

refrains  in  her  lofty  song  bestow  peace,  and,  if  I  may  say  so. 
a  relative  changelessness.  This  is  why  the  study  of  Nature 
never  wearies,  never  jades ;  and  woman  can  trustingly  give 
herself  up  to  it,  for  Nature  is  a  woman.  History,  which  we 
very  foolishly  put  in  the  feminine  gender,  is  a  rude,  savage 
male,  a  sun-burnt,  dusty  traveller.  God  forbid  that  I  should 
lead  the  tender  feet  of  this  child  through  so  rough  a  pilgrimage 
she  would  soon  droop,  her  breath  would  fail  her,  and,  fainting 
she  would  sink  on  the  highway. 

History !  my  daughter,  history !  I  must  indeed  give  you 
some  of  it ;  and  I  will  give  it  to  you,  fresh  and  strong,  sim- 
ple, honest,  bitter  as  it  is ;  fear  not  that,  in  tenderness,  I  will 
sweeten  it  with  poisonous  honey.  But  I  am  not  required 
to  make  you  swallow  the  whole,  poor  child,  to  pour  down  your 
throat  in  torrents  that  terrible  tonic  in  which  poison  pre- 
dominates, to  make  you  empty  even  to  the  dregs  the  cup  of 
Mithridates. 


What  I  owe  you  of  history  is,  first,  your  own  story ;  what  I 
should  tell  you  is  of  your  own  cradle,  and  of  that  which  sup- 
ports the  very  prop  of  your  moral  life.  I  should  tell  you  first 
how  you  were  born- — the  pain,  the  infinite  cares  of  your  mo- 
ther, and  all  her  watchings ;  how  many  times  she  has  suffered, 
wept,  almost  died  for  you.  Let  that  history,  my  child,  be 
your  cherished  legend,  your  pious  souvenir,  your  first  religion 
here  below. 

Then  I  should  tell  you  briefly  what  is  and  what  was  your 
second  mother — that  noble  mother,  your  Country.  God  has 
granted  you  the  distinction  to  be  born  in  this  land  of  France, 
with  which  the  whole  world,  my  child,  is  either  enraged  or 
enamored  ;  no  one  is  indifferent  to  her — all  speak  either  good 
or  evil  of  her — right  or  wrong,  who  knows  ?  As  for  us,  we 
say  of  her  only  thus — that,  "  Men  suffer  gaily  nowhere  but  in 
France.  Hers  are  the  only  people  who  know  how  to  die." 

5* 


106  History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith. 

Of  the  long  lives  of  your  fathers  you  will  know  the  great 
events  if  you  learn  that  at  the  sacred  period  when  your  country 
was  laid  upon  the  altar,  Paris  proclaimed  to  France  the  wish, 
the  resolve  of  all,  "  To  lose  themselves  in  the  great  whole." 

From  this  united  effort  France  became  as  one  person  ;  she 
felt  her  heart  beating,  and  questioned  it ;  and  she  discerned 
in  that  first  throb,  the  holy  brotherhood  of  earth,  the  wish 
to  free  the  world. 

This  is  your  pedigree,  oh  maiden !  exalt  it,  and  may  you 
love  only  heroes ! 


From  France  you  shall  go  forth  into  the  world.  We  will 
prepare  together,  just  as  in  a  garden,  plots  of  ground  suitable 
to  plant  nations  in.  Pleasant  and  animating  is  the  study  of 
soils,  of  climates,  of  the  forms  of  the  globe,  which  in  so  many 
ways  have  determined  the  actions  of  men,  and  often  made 
their  history  in  advance.  Here  the  earth  has  commanded,  man 
obeyed;  and  sometimes,  such  or  such  a  vegetable,  such  or 
such  a  regimen,  has  made  such  or  such  a  civilization.  Some- 
times the  internal  force  of  man  has  uprisen  to  react,  to  strug- 
gle against  this;  in  these  combats  the  good  friend  of  your  child- 
hood, Nature,  and  the  natural  sciences  unite,  and  harmonize 
with  the  moral  sciences,  in  which  life  will  initiate  you. 

Is  the  teaching  of  history  the  same  for  boys  and  girls  ?  Yes, 
doubtless,  as  a  basis  of  faith.  To  both  it  imparts  its  inch 
moral  fruit,  strength  to  the  heart,  and  nourishment  to  life — 
to  wit,  the  grand  consent  of  the  human  soul  on  the  question 
of  justice,  the  historic  agreement  of  the  creeds  of  the  human 
race  as  to  duty  and  God. 

But  let  it  be  better  understood  that,  man  being  destined 
for  business,  to  a  combat  with  the  world,  history  is  peculiarly 
adapted  to  prepare  him  for  it.  To  him  it  is  the  treasure-house 
of  experience,  an  arsenal  of  the  weapons  of  all  kinds  that  he 
shall  wield  to-morrow.  For  the  girl,  history  is  principally  a 
moral  and  religious  basis. 


History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith.  107 

Woman,  who  seems  so  changeable,  and  who  doubtless  is 
physically  renewed  month  by  month,  must  yet  fulfil  on 
earth,  much  more  inexorably  than  man,  two  fixed  conditions. 
Every  woman  is  an  altar,  a  pure  and  holy  thing,  where  man, 
bewildered  by  life,  may  at  all  times  go  for  faith,  and  find  again 
his  own  conscience,  preserved  purer  than  in  himself.  Every 
woman  is  a  school,  and  it  is  really  from  her  that  generations 
receive  their  creeds.  Long  before  the  father  dreams  of  edu- 
cating, the  mother  has  inculcated  her  own  teachings,  which 
will  never  be  effaced. 

The  daughter  must  have  a  religious  belief. 

Snares  will  soon  be  set  for  her,  and  the  most  dangerous  pro- 
ceed from  the  uprooting  of  established  faith.  She  will  not  be 
twenty,  perhaps  but  two  years  married,  a  mere  child,  when 
they  will  begin  to  explore  the  ground.  Pleasant  people  will 
come  to  chat,  to  laugh  at  everything,  to  ridicule  everything 
good  that  her  father  had  been  able  to  teach  her,  the  simple 
faith  of  her  mother,  the  thoughtfulness  of  her  husband — to 
make  her  think  it  fine  to  laugh  at  everything  with  them,  and 
deem  nothing  sure  here  below. 

She  must  have  a  faith,  so  that  this  base  and  selfish  trifling 
may  create  in  her  only  disgust,  so  that  she  may  oppose  it  with 
the  seriousness,  the  gentle  firmness,  of  a  soul  which  has  for 
itself  a  fixed  foundation  of  belief,  planted  in  reason,  in  sim- 
plicity of  heart,  in  the  concurring,  unanimous  heart-voice  of 
the  nations. 

From  the  very  first,  the  father  and  mother  should  agree 
that  under  the  successive  forms  in  which,  according  to  her 
age,  history  shall  be  presented  to  her,  she  shall  always  per- 
ceive its  moral  harmony  and  its  holy  unity.  Her  mother, 
under  the  lacteal  form — that  is,  through  the  pleasant  medium 
of  a  language  simplified  for  her — will  have  told  her,  at  first, 
of  some  of  the  great  and  prominent  events,  which  she  has 
described  in  her  own  way.  Her  father,  in  the  intermedial 
age  (ten  or  twelve  years  perhaps),  will  have  given  her  care- 
fully selected  readings  from  original  writers — some  story  of 


io8  History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith. 

Heredotus,  the  Retreat  of  the  Ten  Thousand,  the  Life  of 
Alexander  the  Great,  some  of  the  beautiful  Bible  stories ;  to 
which  may  be  added  the  Odyssey,  and  those  modern  Odysseys, 
our  own  fine  travels;  all  these  to  be  read  very  slowly,  and 
always  in  the  same  spirit,  so  as  to  show  her,  under  such 
external  differences  of  manners,  habits,  religions,  how  little 
man  himself  has  changed.  For  the  most  part  the  discords 
are  but  seeming  discords,  or  sometimes  demanded  by  pecu- 
liarities of  race  or  climate.  Common  sense  will  explain  all  that. 

As  to  the  family,  for  instance,  we  see  clearly  that  it  cannot  be 
the  same  under  the  physical  fatalities  of  that  hot-bed  of  India, 
where  the  wife  is  a  child,  married  at  eight  or  ten.  But  as 
soon  as  we  come  into  a  free  and  natural  world,  the  ideals  of 
family  are  absolutely  identical.  It  is  the  same  in  Zoroaster, 
in  Homer,  the  same  in  Socrates  (see  the  admirable  passage 
from  the  Economics  of  Xenophon),  the  same,  finally,  in  Rome, 
and  among  us.  We  learn  from  Aristophanes  that  the  Greek 
women,  not  at  all  dependent,  ruled  at  home,  and  often  exer- 
cised a  powerful  influence  in  the  state.  We  see  this  in  Thu- 
cydides,  where  the  men  had  voted  for  the  massacre  of  Lesbos ; 
but  returning  home  at  night,  and  confronting  their  wives, 
they  retracted  and  reversed  their  decree. 

Laws  deceive  us  greatly.  It  is  supposed,  for  example,  that 
wherever  the  son-in-law  pays  the  father,  he  purchases  his  wife, 
and  she  is  his  slave.  But  that  is  a  mistake.  This  form  of 
marriage  exists  indeed  in  Africa,  and  yet  it  is  among  those 
very  tribes  that  the  wife,  free  and  a  queen,  rules — and  not 
the  man  (Livingston).  The  payment  does  not  constitute  the 
purchase  of  the  wife,  but  an  indemnity  to  her  father  for  the 
prospective  children  which  shall  not  profit  his  family,  but  the 
one  into  which  the  wife  is  about  to  enter. 

It  is  curious  to  note  how  sceptics  seize  upon  this,  to  create 
discords  and  exceptions  to  the  rule,  and  to  prove  that  there  is 
no  rule.  The  enemies  of  moral  sense  and  human  reason  have 
no  choice  but  to  seek  in  the  most  suspicious  sources  for  facts 
not  easily  understood. 


History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith.  109 

"  But,"  says  the  father,  "  whence  shall  I  derive  penetra- 
tion enough  to  find  my  own  way,  and  to  guide  my  child 
through  so  many  obscurities  ?"  Strong  and  genuine  criticism 
is  born  of  the  heart,  rather  than  the  intellect ;  it  springs  from 
loyalty,  from  the  impartial  sympathy  we  owe  to  our  brothers 
of  the  past  and  of  the  present.  With  this  you  will  have 
no  difficulty  in  tracing  through  history  the  great  unchang- 
ing current  of  human  morality. 

Will  you  believe  one  who  has  made  the  great  voyage  more 
than  once  ?  His  experience  is  precisely  that  of  the  voyager 
as  he  sails  out  of  the  Caribbean  Sea ;  at  the  first  glance,  he 
sees  only  the  wide  expanse  of  water ;  in  the  second,  on  the 
green  field  he  discerns  a  broad  band  of  blue ;  that  is  the 
immense  torrent  of  warm  floods  which,  crossing  the  Atlantic, 
reaches  Ireland,  still  warm,  and  is  not  entirely  cooled  even  at 
Brest.  He  sees  it  perfectly,  and  moreover,  can  feel  its  warmth 
on  the  passage.  Just  so  will  the  great  current  of  moral  tra- 
dition appear,  if  you  scan  the  ocean  of  history  with  careful  eyes. 


But  long  before  we  reach  this  elevated  simplification,  in 
which  history  becomes  identical  with  morality  itself,  I  should 
desire  my  young  maiden  to  be  pleasantly  nourished  with 
pure  and  wholesome  reading,  borrowed  especially  from  anti- 
quity, from  the  primitive  East.  How  happens  it  that  we  put 
into  the  hands  of  children  the  history  of  grown  up  nations 
only,  while  we  leave  them  ignorant  of  the  infancy  and  youth 
of  the  world  ?  If  some  one  would  collect  a  few  of  the  truly 
spiritual  hymns  of  the  Yedas,  some  of  the  prayers  and  laws 
of  Persia,  so  pure  and  so  heroic,  and  add  a  few  of  those  touch- 
ing pastorals  from  the  Bible,  such  as  the  stories  of  Jacob,  Ruth, 
and  Tobias,  he  would  present  the  young  girl  with  an  incompara 
ble  bouquet,  whose  perfume,  early  and  slowly  inhaled,  would 
impregnate  her  innocent  soul,  and  remain  with  her  forever. 

No  intricate  subjects  in  the  remote  past  for  her ;  banish 


no  History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith. 

from  her  presence  the  Dantes  and  the  Shakespeares,  the 
sophists  and  magicians  of  the  old  age  of  the  world.  Put 
away,  still  more  inexorably,  historical  romances,  that  per- 
nicious literature  which  one  can  never  unlearn,  and  which 
makes  us  insensible  to  genuine  history  forever  after. 

She  should  have  the  world's  nursery  song,  the  Iliad  and 
Odyssey;  the  best  book  of  all  for  a  young  mind — itself  young 
too,  but  so  wise  ! 

Furthermore,  in  order  to  know  which  books  are  suited  to 
her,  you  must  classify  them  according  to  the  quality  of  light 
that  illumines  and  colors  them.  The  literature  of  every  age 
seems  to  correspond  to  some  hour  of  the  day ;  Herodotus 
and  Homer  everywhere  reflect  the  morning,  and  it  prevails  in 
all  the  memorials  of  Greece ;  the  Aurora  seems  always  to 
smile  upon  its  monuments,  everywhere  is  diffused  a  transpa- 
rency, a  strange  serenity,  a  classic  joyfulness,  which  wins 
and  delights  the  heart. 

The  Indian  dramas  and  poems,  modern  in  comparison  with 
the  Vedas,  possess  a  thousand  beauties  to  charm  the  imagina- 
tion of  the  child  and  entrance  her  young  girl's  heart.  But  I 
am  in  no  haste  for  those ;  they  are  all  teeming  with  the  ener- 
vating heats  of  mid-day — a  world  of  ravishing  illusions  dreamed 
in  the  shades  of  enchanted  forests.  To  her  happy  lover,  I 
will  leave  the  voluptuous  pleasure  of  reading  Sakountala  to 
her  in  some  bower  of  flowers. 

It  is  at  evening  or  at  night  that  the  greater  part  of  the 
Bible  seems  to  have  been  written  ;  all  those  terrible  questions 
which  torture  human  reason  are  therein  laid  down  harshly  and 
with  savage  crudeness.  The  alienation  of  man  from  God,  of 
the  son  from  the  father,  the  fearful  problem  of  the  Origin  of 
Evil,  and  all  those  perplexities  of  the  latest-born  people  of 
Asia, — I  would  forbear  from  too  early  agitating  a  young 
heart  with  these.  Of  what  possible  use,  forsooth,  could  it 
be,  to  read  to  her  the  lamentations  of  David  in  the  dark- 
ness, beating  his  breast,  torn  with  anguish  for  the  murder  of 
Uriah  ? 


History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith.  1 1 1 

Strong  wine  for  men,  and  milk  for  babes.  I  am  old  and 
almost  worn  out ;  the  sacred  book  is  for  such  as  I.  But  in  it 
man  falls,  and  rises  but  to  fall  again — how  many,  many  times ! 
how  can  I  explain  all  that  to  my  dear  innocent?  May  she  long 
be  ignorant  of  the  strife  of  the  homo  duplex  !  It  is  not  that 
the  Bible  presents  the  enervating  sensuality  to  be  found  in 
the  mystics  of  the  Middle  Ages,  but  for  her  it  is  too  violent 
—ever  disturbed,  and  without  rest. 


Another  consideration  which  would  make  me  hesitate  to 
allow  her  the  Bible  too  soon,  is  that  hatred  of  Nature  which 
the  Jews  evince  throughout.  They  evidently  fear  from  it  the 
seductions  of  Egypt  or  Babylon.  But  whatever  the  cause, 
it  invests  their  writings  with  a  negative,  critical  character,  a 
gloomy  austerity,  which,  moreover,  is  not  always  pure :  a 
state  of  feeling  exactly  opposed  to  that  which  I  wish  for  our 
child,  who  should  be  the  incarnation  of  innocence,  joy,  and 
serenity;  full  of  sympathy  with  Nature,  and  especially  with 
the  animals,  to  which  the  Jews  cruelly  gave  a  base  name. 
Rather  may  my  little  one  be  possessed  by  the  tender  sentiment 
of  the  glorious  East,  which  blesses  all  life ! 

Daughter,  let  us  read  together — in  that  bible  of  light,  the 
Zend-Avesta — the  ancient  and  sacred  lamentation  of  the  Cow, 
appealing  to  man  and  reminding  him  of  her  gifts.  Let  us 
read  those  powerful  lines,  ever  true  and  living,  in  which  man 
acknowledges  what  he  owes  to  the  companions  of  his  toil,  the 
strong  bull,  the  watchful  dog,  the  good  mother  Earth.  The 
Soil  is  not  insensible,  and  what  she  says  to  the  husbandman 
will  endure  for  ever.  (Zend.  ii.  284.) 

J3e  pure  that  you  may  be  strong,  be  strong  that  you  may 
be  fruitful^  the  whole  meaning  of  that  system  of  law — one 
of  the  most  humane,  most  harmonious,  that  God  has  given  to 
man. 

Every  morning  before  light,  while  the  tiger  still  prowls,  twc 


112  History  as  a  Basis  of  Faith. 

comrades  go  forth, — a  man  and  his  dog.  We  are  speaking 
of  the  primitive  dog,  that  colossal  mastiff ;  without  which  the 
land  would  then  have  been  uninhabitable,  a  creature  at  once 
friendly  and  formidable,  which  alone  could  overcome  monsters. 
One  that  was  exhibited  before  Alexander  strangled  a  lion  in 
his  presence. 

Man  had  then  no  weapon  but  the  short,  heavy  sword,  such 
as  is  depicted  on  monuments,  with  which,  face  to  face,  breast 
to  breast,  he  stabbed  the  lion. 

Every  day,  protected  by  his  faithful  dog,  he  breaks  the 
land ;  he  sows  it  with  good  seed,  waters  it,  and  tills  it  with 
the  plough  ;  he  refreshes  it  with  fountains,  and  his  own  heart 
is  refreshed  with  the  beneficent  work  of  Law  :  so  he  returns 
from  it  sanctified. 

The  companion  of  this  noble  life  of  toil  and  danger,  woman, 
his  efficient  wife,  the  mistress  of  his  house,  receives  him  at  the 
threshold,  and  restores  him  with  food  from  her  own  hand : 
he  eats  what  she  gives  him,  and  allows  her  to  nourish  him 
like  a  child,  for  she  knows  everything, — the  virtues  of  all 
plants,  those  which  give  health,  and  those  which  cheer  the 
heart. 

Here  woman  is  a  magician,  a  queen  ;  she  subdues  even  the 
conqueror  of  lions. 

That  world  of  ancient  Persia  was  a  virginal  world,  fresh  as 
the  dew  before  dawn.  I  can  almost  feel  the  circulation 
through  it,  of  those  forty  thousand  subterranean  canals  of 
which  Herodotus  speaks — hidden  veins,  which  re-animated  the 
earth,  and  snatched  living  water  from  the  thirst  of  the  burn- 
ing sun,  to  refresh  the  longing  lips  of  innumerable  roots,  and 
gladden  the  heavy  hearts  of  trees! 


Pallas. — Reason.  1 1 3 

XL 

PALLAS. REASON. 

MY  dear  child,  you  have  as  yet  hardly  been  in  the  galleries 
of  sculpture ;  your  mother  thinks  them  too  cold,  and  we  have 
always  preferred  to  ascend  to  the  upper  story  of  the  Louvre, 
to  the  warm,  breathing  world  of  pictures.  And  yet,  espe- 
cially in  the  summer,  it  is  a  place  of  sublime  repose,  of  silence, 
where  one  may  meditate  and  study  better  than  in  the  museum 
above.  To-day,  while  her  duties  detain  your  mother  at  home, 
let  us,  together,  make  a  pilgrimage  to  that  solemn  country  of 
the  dead. 

Nations  and  Schools  are  not  classified  here  as  in  the  picture- 
gallery.  The  pure  and  lofty  antiques  are  too  often  found  side 
by  side  with  the  works  of  the  Decadence.  There  is  no  con- 
fusion, however.  So  proud,  so  sublime,  so  simple  are  the 
true  children  of  Greece,  that  even  in  the  midst  of  Romans — 
emperors  and  senators — it  is  they  who  are  glorious,  who 
triumph, — the  Greeks,  who  seem  masters  of  the  world.  The 
low  passions  which  characterize  the  busts  of  the  Empire  (the 
Agrippas,  the  Vitelliuses,  etc.)  had  no  part  in  their  noble  pre- 
decessors. A  sublime  serenity  is  the  attribute  of  these  sons 
of  the  ideal ;  on  their  brows  is  the  same  reflection  with  which 
Aurora  gilds  the  dome  of  the  Acropolis  of  Athens,  while*  their 
deep  eyes  denote  not  soft  revery,  but  subtile  intuition,  and 
masculine  reason. 

You  have  read  Plutarch's  Lives,  and  you  seek  here  for  the 
great  dead,  the  objects  of  your  preference;  but  those  interest- 
ing and  romantic  biographies  of  the  Decadence  afford  an  idea 
quite  opposed  to  that  of  the  genius  of  antiquity.  They  pro- 
claim the  Hero  to  enthrone  and  deify  him ;  on  the  other  hand, 
the  glory  of  the  Greek  world  consisted  in  being  a  heroic  peo- 
ple, where  there  were,  nevertheless,  no  heroes — where  no  one 
man  was  a  hero,  and  yet  all  were.  By  physical  and  mental 


1 14  Pallas. — Reason. 

discipline  every  citizen  reached  the  perfection  of  his  beauty, 
and  attained  the  heroic  climax,  so  as  closely  to  resemble  the 
gods.  By  an  incessant  activity,  by  contests,  by  discussions  in 
the  forum  and  the  schools,  by  the  theatre,  by  festivals  with 
games  and  combats,  the  Greek  evolved  everything  strong  and 
beautiful  in  his  nature,  and  moulded  himself  unwearyingly  to 
the  likeness  of  Apollo  and  Hercules,  borrowing  the  strength 
of  the  one,  the  graceful  elegance  and  lofty  melody  of  the 
other,  or  the  meditative  faculty  of  the  Minerva  of  Athens. 

Were  all  the  Greeks  born  beautiful  ?  It  would  be  absurd 
to  suppose  so ;  but  they  knew  how  to  make  themselves  beau- 
tiful. "Socrates  was  born  a  very  satyr.  But  within  and 
without  he  so  transformed  himself  by  this  sculpture  of  rea- 
son, of  virtue  and  devotion,  he  so  improved  his  face,  that 
at  last  a  god  looked  through  it,  by  whom  the  Phaedon  is 
illumined." 


Let  us  enter  this  large  hall,  at  the  farther  end  of  which 
stands  the  colossal  statue  of  Melpomene,  and,  without  going 
so  far,  let  us  stop  a  moment  before  this  figure  of  Pallas.  It 
is  a  sculpture  of  Roman  times,  but  copied  from  a  Greek  Pal- 
las, perhaps  from  that  of  Phidias.  The  face  wears  precisely  the 
same  expression  as  the  well-known  faces  of  Pericles  and  The- 
mistocles;  that  expression — to  name  it  aright — is  thought, 
wisdom,  or  rather  reflection. 

To  reflect  is  to  turn  one's  thought  back  upon  itself,  to  take 
it  for  its  own  object,  to  look  at  it  as  in  a  mirror.  Thus  it  will 
apparently  be  doubled,  so  that  the  thought  gazing  fixedly 
upon  itself  will  expand  and  develop  itself,  by  the  analysis  of 
language,  or  by  the  inner  speech  of  dumb  reason. 

The  lofty  genius  of  Greece  did  not  consist  in  the  ability  of 
a  Ulysses  or  a  Themistocles,  who  made  her  mistress  of  Asia, 
but  in  this  invention  of  the  process  of  reasoning,  which  made 
the  Greeks  the  great  teachers  for  all  time  to  come. 


Pallas. — Reason.  115 

Poetic  and  prophetic  intuition,  the  Oriental  process,  so  sub- 
lime in  the  Jewish  writings,  followed  a  no  less  thorny  path, 
full  of  mists  and  mirage,  i  It  was  arbitrary,  besides,  depend- 
ing on  the  wholly  involuntary  chance  of  inspiration. 

For  this  obscure  process,  Greece  substituted  a  vigorous 
method  of  seeking  and  finding,  of  coming  with  certainty  into 
the  open  day,  by  ways  known  to  all,  where  one  may  pass  and 
repass,  and  make  a  thorough  exploration.  Man  thus  becomes 
his  own  architect,  and  the  builder  of  his  own  destiny — no 
particular  man  but  any  man  whosoever — not  the  elect,  nor  the 
prophet,  nor  the  special  favorite  of  God.  With  this  art  of 
reasoning,  Athens  gave  to  all  the  world  an  instrument  of 
equality. 

Until  then  there  had  been  no  connecting  link.  There  were 
blind  bursts  of  emotion,  and  attempts  at  reflection,  but  that 
speedily  came  to  nought ;  all  was  unconnected  and  fortuitous 
— nothing  regular. 

Until  then  all  progress  was  by  fits  and  starts  ;  no  true  his- 
tory of  the  improvement  of  the  human  race  has  been  possible. 
Asia  possesses  little  of  the  historical  element ;  her  scanty 
annals  afford  but  isolated  facts,  from  which  one  can  draw  no 
conclusion.  Indeed,  what  conclusion  can  we  draw  from  events 
ordered  by  fate,  and  uncontrolled  by  wisdom  ? 

But  from  the  day  that  reasoning  became  an  art,  a  science, 
from  the  day  that  the  virgin  Pallas  gave  birth  to  the  faculty 
of  deduction  and  comparison,  in  its  clear  form,  there  has 
existed  a  regular,  uninterrupted  descent  for  human  works. 
The  stream  flowed  on,  and  has  never  stopped — from  Solon 
to  Papinian,  from  Socrates  to  Descartes,  from  Archimedes  to 
Newton, 


In  you,  as  in  us  all,  my  child,  this  great  power ;  it  is 
only  necessary  to  cultivate  it.  I  do  not  ask  you  to  apply 
yourself  to  the  most  abstract  subjects,  to  translate  Newton, 


n6  Pallas. — Reason. 

for  instance,  like  a  celebrated  woman  of  the  last  century  ;  I 
do  not  ask  you  to  teach  the  higher  mathematics  to  a  circle  of 
attentive  men  and  respectful  pupils,  as  I  saw  a  lady  do  at 
Granville,  in  1859  ;  but  I  should  be  very  happy  if,  in  the 
misfortunes  which  may  cloud  your  life,  you  could  find  distrac- 
tion in  those  pure  and  exalted  regions.  The  love  of  the 
beautiful  is  so  indigenous  to  the  heart  of  woman,  that  to  feel 
herself  growing  more  beautiful  will  console  her  for  anything. 
Purity,  nobleness,  the  elevation  of  a  life  turned  wholly  toward 
the  true,  is  a  recompense  for  the  loss  of  all  earthly  happi- 
ness. It  may  be  that  even  that  would  no  longer  be  remem- 
bered. 

We  have  had  an  example  of  this  in  an  admirable  child, 
the  young  Emilia,  daughter  of  Manin.  She  had  early  suffered 
the  heaviest  sorrows, — the  loss  of  her  mother,  the  ruin  of  her 
father,  and  the  fearful  tragedy  of  Venice,  the  results  of  which 
fell  upon  her ;  exile  and  poverty,  and  the  gloomy  life  of 
northern  towns,  completed  her  desolation.  But  the  most 
terrible  result  was,  that  this  suffering  image  of  the  martyr- 
dom of  Italy,  who  endured  all  its  horrors,  was  subject  to  the 
agonizing  paroxysms  of  a  cruel  nervous  malady.  Ah ! 
through  all  this  that  young  daughter  of  grief  kept  her  mind 
serene  and  elevated,  loving  abstract  purity — algebra  and  geo- 
metry !  She  so  sustained  her  father  by  this  sublime  serenity, 
that  he  consulted  her  in  everything,  and  even  after  he  had  lost 
her  acted  as  she  would  have  advised.  "  I  think,"  said  he  to 
me,  speaking  of  a  certain  patriotic  scheme,  "  that  my  daughter 
would  have  approved  it." 


Is  there  any  difference  between  God  and  Reason?  It 
would  be  impious  to  believe  it.  And  of  all  the  forms  of  Eter- 
nal Love  (beauty,  fascination,  power),  no  doubt  Reason  is  the 
first,  the  most  exalted.  It  is  through  Reason  that  Divine 
love  possesses  harmony  and  the  order  which  blesses — benefi- 


Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Charity."  117 

cent,  benevolent  order ;  and  though  she  appears  cold,  she  is, 
nevertheless,  loving. 


We  shall  not  always  live  to  love  and  protect  you;  perhaps 
like  other  women,  you  will  be  alone  in  the  world.  Well,  let 
your  father's  heart  appoint  you  a  protectress,  a  grave  and 
faithful  guardian  who  will  never  fail  you — I  vow  and  dedicate 
my  darling  to  the  Virgin  of  Athens — to  Reason  ! 


XII. 

ANDREA    DEL    SARTO'S    "CHARITY." 

THE  attentive  reader,  I  doubt  not,  has  been  able  to  seize  upon 
the  double  thread  of  the  methods  I  have  pursued  in  the  three 
last  chapters,  methods  equally  rigid,  although  one  seemed  to 
respect  and  caress  Nature,  and  the  other  to  contradict  her. 
From  the  day  when  my  little  girl,  on  the  delicate  ground 
between  two  seasons  of  life,  was  in  her  turn  attacked  by  that 
delicious  malady  which  is  only  love,  I  have  successively  em- 
ployed two  medicines,  not  to  eradicate,  but  to  change  it. 
I  would  not  cheat  love,  for  which  I  have  that  tender  respect 
that  we  owe  to  all  the  good  things  of  God,  but  extend 
it,  satisfy  it  better  than  it  could  satisfy  itself,  ennoble  it,  and 
elevate  it  to  worthier  objects. 

The  reader  has  seen  that  at  the  moment  of  the  change — 
towards  fourteen,  or  rather  a  little  before,  when  I  saw  it 
approaching — I  made  use  of  what  might  be  termed  homoeo- 
pathic remedies,  balancing  and  opposing  like  with  like.  I 


ii8  Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Chanty." 

gave  as  a  counterpoise  to  the  sexual  emotion,  the  maternal 
passion,  and  the  care  of  little  children. 

But  in  the  years  which  have  followed,  with  allopathic  art  I 
have  filled  her  mind  with  new  studies,  with  pure  and  quiet 
reading.  In  the  pleasing  variety  of  travels  and  histories  I 
have  taught  her  to  find  for  herself  the  solid  moral  basis  on 
which  her  life  is  to  rest — the  oneness  of  man's  faith,  in  duty 
and  in  God. 

She  has  seen  God  in  nature,  she  sees  him  in  history ;  she 
perceives  in  eternal  love  the  link  between  those  two  worlds 
which  she  has  studied  apart — with  what  deep  and  tender  feel- 
ing !  But  have  I  not  created  danger  here,  and  will  not  this 
young  loving  heart  grow  bewildered,  and  under  the  guise  of 
purity,  in  a  higher  sphere,  pursue  a  whirlwind  of  disorders  no 
less  dangerous  ? 

As  to  this,  everything  depends  upon  the  mother.  At  the 
first  shock  of  nature,  the  tender,  troubled  child,  was  wholly  in 
her  mother's  arms ;  and  found  therein  not  only  warm  caresses 
but  dreams  too.  A  woman  is  so  moved  when  her  child  be- 
comes a  woman,  that  she  herself  becomes  a  child ;  she  fears 
for  her  adored  treasure,  now  tottering  and  frail ;  she  prays 
and  weeps,  and  easily  falls  back  upon  the  weakness  of  a  mys- 
ticism by  which  both  may  be  enervated. 

And  then  what  will  become  of  me  ?  Of  what  use  that  I 
have  given  this  flower  healthful  and  strengthening  waters,  if 
a  weak  mother  is  to  keep  it  sickly  with  milk  and  with  tears, 
and  what  is  worse,  dosed  with  quackeries  ? 

Of  all  corrupting  romances  the  worst  are  the  mystical 
books  wherein  soul  talks  with  soul  in  the  dangerous  hours  of 
an  artificial  twilight.  She  believes  she  is  growing  in  grace, 
and  she  goes  on  languishing,  softening,  preparing  herself  for 
all  human  weaknesses.  The  rough,  harsh,  and  violent  agitation 
of  the  Jewish  writings,  is  sickly  and  feverish  in  those  of  the 
middle  ages ;  how  much  more  so  in  their  modern  imitations, 
BO  disastrously  equivocal !  My  young  daughter,  who  from 
year  to  year,  by  an  entirely  opposite  path,  has  ascended  to 


Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Charity."  119 

the  idea  of  God  (of  God  strong,  living,  and  creating),  has  less 
to  fear  than  others ;  but  it  is  just  at  this  moment  that  I  intend 
to  arm  her ;  to  protect  her  young  head  with  something  to  put 
dreams  to  flight — the  luminous  steel  helmet  of  the  true  virgin, 
Pallas.  The  mental  dialogue  I  would  begin  in  her  is  not  at 
all  that  of  dangerous  revery,  but  the  rigid  questionings  of 
thought,  fully  awakened,  with  thought  itself.  There,  higher 
than  reasoning  she  perceives  Reason.  Above  the  spheres  of 
life  which  she  has  traversed,  she  sees  the  crystal  sphere,  where 
the  Idea  in  full  light  has  penetrated  through  and  through. 
And  so  beautiful  and  pure  is  this,  that  she  loves  and  adores 
Purity  for  its  own  sake.  This  is  the  love  which  in  her  h as- 
transfigured  love,  and  this  is  how  I  have  defended  her  heart. 

But  will  this  always  avail  ?  I  must  not  so  flatter  myself. 
Poor  child !  it  is  not  her  fault ;  it  is  nature's,  who  every  day 
enriches  her  with  strength,  embellishes  her  with  a  luxury  of 
life,  and  makes  a  magic  charm  of  her.  A  maiden  of  pure  and 
lofty  heart,  of  upright  and  enlightened  will,  she  seems  by 
that  very  purity  to  offer  a  worthier  prize  to  the  imperious 
power.  Her  eyes  and  her  thoughts  are  on  heaven,  her  heart 
intent  on  serious  subjects,  her  virtuous  mind  which  can  con- 
trol itself  shuns  no  abstraction.  But  it  often  happens  that 
in  the  very  midst  of  these  noble  studies  some  one  disturbs 
her  (who,  indeed  ?) ;  her  cheek  suddenly  flushes,  her  beautiful 
eyes  wander  and  grow  dim — a  wave  of  life  has  ascended  and 
flooded  her  young  bosom. 

She  is  a  woman — so  what  can  one  do?  she  radiates  all 
around  her  a  seductive  electricity.  Under  the  forests  of  the 
equator,  love,  in  myriads  of  creatures,  burst  forth  from  flame 
itself,  through  the  magic  of  the  winged  fires  that  transfigure 
the  night.  Naive  revelations  these,  but  not  more  so  than  the 
timid  innocent  charm  of  a  maiden,  thinking  to  conceal  all.  A 
divine  light  emanates  from  her  involuntarily,  a  voluptuous 
halo ;  and  at  the  very  moment  when  she  blushes  at  her  own 
beauty,  does  she  diffuse  around  her  the  intoxicating  perfume 
of  love. 


120  Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Charity." 

"  O  my  dear  child,  I  cannot,  I  will  not,  leave  you  thus ! 
You  would  be  consumed  even  as  a  taper.  With  that  danger- 
ous fever  which  would  destroy  you,  we  must  blend  another 
to  dissipate  it.  A  devouring  power  possesses  you,  but  I  will 
give  it  food  ;  anything  is  better,  my  darling,  than  to  see  you 
pine  alone.  Receive  from  me  the  cordial,  one  flame  to  quench 
another ;  take  (it  is  your  father  who  administers)  bitterness 
and  sorrow. 

"Sheltered  by  our  love,  shut  in  with  your  own  thoughts  and 
your  studies,  you  know  but  little  of  the  world's  labors,  of  the 
immensity  of  its  wretchedness.  Save  a  glance  at  a  crying 
child,  so  quickly  comforted,  you  have  never  yet  suspected  the 
numberless  griefs  here  below.  You  were  weak  and  delicate  ; 
and  your  mother  and  I  did  not  dare  to  excite  you  with  so 
many  heart-rending  emotions ;  but  to-day  we  should  be  culpa- 
ble not  to  tell  you  ah1." 

So  I  take  her  with  me,  and  lead  her  boldly  through  that 
sea  of  tears  which  flows  by  our  very  side  without  attracting 
our  notice.  I  tear  away  the  curtain,  regardless  of  the  physical 
disgust,  the  false  delicacy  :  Look,  look,  my  child  !  behold  the 
reality !  In  the  presence  of  such  things  a  woman  must  be 
endowed  with  marvellous  powers  of  egotistic  abstraction,  to 
pursue  her  dreams  and  her  personal  idyl — her  idle  sail  over 
the  stream  of  Love,  whose  banks  are  gay  with  flowers. 

She  blushes  for  her  ignorance,  is  troubled,  and  weeps. 
And  then,  recovering  herself,  blushes  for  weeping  instead  of 
acting.  The  flame  of  God  burns  brightly  within  her,  and 
henceforth  she  gives  us  no  peace.  All  the  powers  of  love,  the 
warmth  of  her  young  blood,  enlisted  in  charity,  rouse  her  to 
activity,  to  enthusiasm;  she  is  impatient,  unhappy  that  she 
can  do  so  little.  How  shall  we  calm  her  now?  it  is  her 
mother's  task  to  direct  her,  watch  her,  restrain  her ;  for  with 
this  blind  enthusiasm,  she  may  precipitate  herself  into  un- 
known dangers. 

The  intoxication  of  charity  and  its  heroic  fire,  that  ravish- 
ing passion  of  maidens  overflowing  with  love,  has  never  been 


Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Chanty."  121 

described ;  but  it  has  been  painted  once.  An  Italian  exile, 
touched  with  gratitude  for  the  charity  of  France,  bestowed 
upon  .us  this  inestimable  gift,  the  most  fervid  picture,  I  think, 
in  the  Museum  of  the  Louvre.  Alas !  why  is  it  there 
among  so  many  common  works  of  art,  that  inspiration  of 
exalted  sanctity  !  And  how  altered  too  !  Barbarians !  hea 
thens  !  thanks  to  you,  this  divine  wonder  has  almost  perished 
on  the  canvas.  But  in  my  glowing  memory  it  is  always 
blazing ;  and  to  my  last  moment,  more  than  any  other  saintly 
image,  shall  it  have  my  devotion. 


The  following,  without  alteration,  is  the  hasty  informal  note 
I  wrote  on  the  21st  of  May  last,  when  I  saw  it  for  the  last 
time  : 

"  A  work  of  infinite  boldness,  without  conventionality  or 
deference  to  rule.  In  it  we  see  that  terrible  period,  of  the 
catastrophe  of  Italy.  One  must  have  died  many  times  to  be 
able  to  describe  or  paint  like  this. 

"  The  fair,  full  breast  is  that  of  a  virgin,  not  a  wrife — wives 
too  are  more  timid.  The  one  before  us  has  not  been  subdued  ; 
she  has  nothing  dodging  about  her,  she  wavers  neither  to  the 
right  hand  nor  the  left — has  no  fear,  no  doubt.  She  only  looks 
on  those  poor  starving  wretches,  and  that  is  enough  ;  she  feeds 
them.  (Here  we  must  explain,  that  at  this  period  a  man  cross- 
ing the  Alps  encountered  an  immense  troop  of  thousands  of 
children  who  had  lost  their  parents ;  they  were  browsing  on 
all  fours,  guided  by  an  old  woman.) 

"  Before  this  horrible  spectacle  of  misery  and  filth,  another 
would  have  wept,  but  would  have  fled.  She,  young,  heroic, 
knowing  neither  fear  nor  disgust,  opens  wide  her  arms,  and 
takes  them  to  her  bosom. 

"  One  is  at  her  feet,  all  haggard,  his  ribs  distinctly  visible ;  he 
is  tired,  exhausted,  and  can  go  no  further  ;  with  weariness  and 
sleepiness  he  has  fallen  on  a  stone.  As  she  has  but  two  arms 

6 


122  Andrea  del  Sarto's  "Charity." 

she  holds  but  two  of  the  children  ;  one  she  has  placed  at  her 
bosom,  her  luxurious  bosom,  turgid  with  milk.  He  is  in  per- 
fect happiness,  and  his  greedy,  gluttonous  mouth  (for  he  has 
been  famished  so  long !)  presses  the  beautiful  fountain,  red  with 
life  and  love,  with  pure  and  generous  blood. 

"  With  how  proud  a  heart,  with  what  noble  bounty,  she 
pours  out  her  milk  !  A  naive  circumstance  betrays  the  charm- 
ing precipitation  with  which  she  took  up  the  starving  child. 
She  is  not  a  nurse  ;  so  she  has  placed  him  to  her  breast  just  as 
he  came,  holding  him  on  her  left  arm,  which  she  has  passed 
under  him  with  tender  strength,  without  ever  thinking  of  the 
right  way.  But  how  could  one  laugh  at  that  ?  No  more 
than  he  could  smile  at  the  bold  negligence  with  which  the 
young  saint,  wholly  absorbed  in  her  passionate  employment, 
has  put  on  her  cap  awry.  The  other  child,  which  she  holds  on 
her  right  arm  to  her  covered  bosom,  is  larger,  stronger,  more 
decent — I  was  about  to  say  more  corrupt.  He  has  a  girdle 
about  his  waist,  and  is  not  dressed  like  a  boy,  but  already  has 
the  cringing,  fawning  air  of  a  young  beggar  ;  his  sharp  trem- 
bling lips  seem  to  utter  a  harsh,  piercing  prayer  through  his 
clenched  teeth.  He  holds  in  his  hands,  I  think,  some  bad, 
sour  grapes  ;  but  is  in  haste  to  forget  in  the  pleasure  of  the 
rich  sweet  milk  of  the  woman,  that  bitter  food.  He  will  not 
be  kept  waiting  long ;  his  comrade  has  imbibed  so  much  that 
he  is  swollen  like  a  leech. 

"  Near  by,  on  the  ground,  is  a  chafing-dish  with  a  fire  of  red- 
hot  coals  and  embers — but  so  cold  in  comparison  with  the  fire 
that  glows  in  her  heart !  Her  form  too  glows,  and  she  has 
the  grand  calmness  of  strength,  a  firm  heroic  attitude,  a  throne 
in  the  grace  of  God." 


The  Eevelation  of  Heroism.  123 

XIII. 

THE    REVELATION    OF    HEROISM. 

FROEBEL,  in  his  Education  of  Children,  suggests  a  very  happy 
expedient.  He  requires  that  they  be  reared  independently  of 
their  teacher,  by  a  lovely  and  accomplished  young  lady,  such 
as  a  man  would  desire  for  his  wife.  How  grateful  we  should 
be  to  the  children !  He  advises  that  this  young  girl  shall  visit 
the  schools  often,  to  assist  the  teacher  and  assume  her  qualities. 
The  teacher  must  be  careful,  loving,  intelligent,  with  that  un- 
wearying patience  that  love  alone  can  give.  The  young  women 
who  assist  her  should  be  like  her,  or  gradually  become  so,  by 
means  of  that  which  renders  a  woman  capable  of  everything — 
the  love  of  children,  the  maternal  instinct.  Must  they  be  per- 
fect? In  this  way,  at  least,  they  will  become  so.  Happy 
children,  to  be  in  such  pleasant  hands !  And  how  much  more 
so,  indeed,  the  lover  to  whose  lot  shall  fall  the  divinest  of  the 
gifts  of  heaven. 

Madame  Necker  is  of  the  same  opinion.  She  thinks  we  can 
form  the  girl  into  an  admirable  wife  by  thus  first  making  a 
mother  of  her. 


How  much  these  poor  little  things  who  have  nothing,  can 
bestow  on  the  young  lady !  First,  a  knowledge  of  life,  with  all 
its  realities  and  miseries ;  for  they  will  show  her  the  world  as  it 
is.  They  will  strengthen  her  character,  and  relieve  her  of  her 
false  delicacy.  She  will  not  be  the  haughty  prude,  the  fasti- 
dious fine  lady,  that  we  meet  every  day.  She  will  become  skilful 
and  bold,  will  feel  the  sacredness  of  humanity,  and  the  dignity 
of  chanty ;  she  will  have  none  of  the  silly  scruples  of  those 
who  have  nothing  better ;  calmly,  and  with  dignity,  will  she  per- 
form the  most  menial  offices — feeding,  bathing,  dressing,  and 
undressing,  if  need  be,  her  innocents. 


1 24  The  Revelation  of  Heroism. 

A  thoughtful  girl,  who  has  thus,  at  the  same  time,  both  the 
ideal  of  study  and  the  reality  of  life,  will  be  strengthened  by 
both,  and  derive  from  them  a  correct  judgment.  When  she 
is  older,  she  will  not  know  a  gentleman  by  his  yellow  gloves, 
or  his  horses  and  carriages,  but  by  his  actions,  by  his  heart 
and  his  goodness.  She  will  love  only  seriously,  paying  little 
attention  to  externals,  but  penetrating  to  the  depths  of  her 
lover's  character,  for  what  he  does,  and  of  what  he  is  capable. 

Suppose  that  by  chance  a  young  man  enters  and  discovers 
her  with  her  mother,  engaged  in  her  holy  duties.  The  chil- 
dren, a  little  frightened  at  the  advent  of  so  fine  a  gentleman, 
cling  close  and  cluster  around  her,  behind  her  chair,  on  her 
knees,  even  under  the  folds  of  her  dress,  where,  feeling  safe,  they 
peep  out  and  show  their  pretty  heads.  She,  though  surprised 
and  smiling,  blushes  a  little ;  do  you  fancy  she  will  take  refuge 
behind  her  mother  ?  No,  she  is  herself  a  mother  to  them, 
busied  in  comforting  them,  more  concerned  for  them  than  for 
her  visitor.  It  is  he  who  is  embarrassed  ;  he  feels  like  kneel- 
ing before  them  to  kiss  their  hands.  He  does  not  address  the 
daughter,  but  approaches  the  mother :  "  Ah !  madam,  what 
a  pleasant  sight,  what  a  charming  scene !  I  cannot  tell  you 
how  my  heart  thanks  you  for  it."  Then  to  the  young  lady : 
"  He  would  be  happy,  mademoiselle,  who  could  aid  you ! 
But,  mon  Dieu !  what  could  I  do  ?" 

She,  quite  at  her  ease,  in  no  wise  disconcerted,  replies : 
"  That  is  easy,  sir.  Most  of  these  children  are  orphans ;  find 
some  good  people  without  children,  who  would  be  willing  to 
adopt  this  little  one.  He  is  five  years  old.  I  cannot  comfort 
him ;  he  wants  a  mother,  a  real  mother ;  I  have  tried  my  best, 
but  I  am  too  young,  too  far  from  the  age  of  his  own  mother 
whom  he  has  lost." 


There  are  many  men  of  the  world,  who  feel  these  things 
for  a  moment,  who  admire  as  artists  the  grace  of  expression 


The  Revelation  of  Heroism.  125 

or  attitude  the  young  girl  may  have  displayed ;  but  there  are 
not  many  who  take  them  into  their  hearts  and  preserve  their 
permanent  and  lasting  impression.  Life  is  variable  and  restless ; 
it  drifts  them  far  away.  At  most,  they  only  say  in  the  even- 
ing :  "  I  saw  a  charming  thing  this  morning,  mademoiselle — a 
veritable  tableau,  after  Andrea  del  Sarto — the  prettiest 
sight !" 

She  very  well  knows  what  such  admirers  are  worth,  and 
the  slight  value  to  be  placed  on  their  fickle  emotions. 

The  more  she  retires  into  the  sanctum  sanctissimum  of  the 
family,  the  happier  she  is  in  it,  the  less  she  cares  to  leave  it. 

Every  time  she  catches  a  glimpse  of  the  world,  she  feels 
more  cheerfully  the  pleasantness  of  her  own  little  nest. 

Little,  very  little !  yet  human  life  is  complete  within  it,  in 
that  graceful  equilibrium  of  a  mother  ennobling  by  her  heart 
the  humblest  cares,  and  of  an  earnest  father,  whose  hidden 
tenderness  is  often  betrayed  in  spite  of  himself.  At  such 
passionate  demonstrations  the  young  girl  quivers,  and  is  even 
more  deeply  touched  by  his  care  to  transmit  to  her  every  day 
whatever  he  has  in  himself  of  good  and  great. 

As  a  woman,  she  is  happy  in  thus  discovering  the  inner  life 
of  a  man.  She  did  not  know  her  father,  at  least  never  so  well 
as  now ;  she  saw  him  every  day,  and  listened  to  his  teachings, 
and  his  emphatic  words ;  but  she  did  not  know  the  secret  and 
best  part  of  his  nature.  Every  man  becomes  what  circum- 
stances, the  force  of  precedents,  and  education,  the  necessities 
of  business,  may  chance  to  make  him.  Much  must  be  sacri- 
ficed to  position,  to  the  needs  of  Family;  and  thus  the 
inner  man,  often  very  different  and  far  nobler,  lies  stifled 
under  all.  Amid  the  monotony  of  every-day  life,  wherein  it 
sleeps,  a  vague  sadness  betrays  the  mute  complaint  of  the 
other,  the  better  self.  What  a  pleasant  awaking  is  it,  then, 
and  how  charming,  when  a  young  soul,  knowing  nothing 
of  our  miseries,  appeals  to  these  hidden  powers,  to  this  captive 
poetry,  and  asks  their  assistance ;  when  all  absorbed  in  her 
family,  and  afraid  of  the  world,  she  turns  alone  to  her  father, 


126  The  Revelation  of  Heroism. 

and  seems  to  say  to  him:  "I  listen  to  thee,  I  have  faith  only 
in  thee!" 

Doubtless  this  sublime  moment  is  the  noblest,  the  sweetest 
experience  of  paternity.  A  child  in  docility,  she  is  a  woman  in 
ardor,  and  in  the  eager  tenderness  with  which  she  receives 
instruction.  How  aptly  she  comprehends  everything  good 
and  noble !  He  himself  hardly  recognises  her :  "  What !" 
says  he,  "  is  this  my  little  one  who  but  lately  scarcely  reached 
my  knee,  and  who  used  to  say,  'carry  me!'"  His  heart  is 
truly  moved.  Let  him  but  speak  at  this  moment,  let  him  but 
speak,  and,  oh !  he  will  be  eloquent !  I  am  quite  sure  of  that, 
I  have  not  the  slightest  doubt  of  that. 

Let  us  take  advantage  of  these  beautiful  hours,  these  pre- 
cious tete-a-tetes.  I  see  the  two  walking  now  under  the  majestic 
elms  that  inclose  their  little  garden.  They  step  with  a  quick 
firm  tread,  faster  than  one  would  expect  in  this  hot  month  of 
July ;  but  they  keep  time  with  the  beating  of  their  hearts  and 
the  rapidity  of  their  thoughts.  She,  knowing  her  father's  taste, 
has  placed  in  her  black  hair  some  blades  of  grain  and  blue 
blossoms.  "We  will  listen  to  their  talk,  for  the  subject  is  a 
grave  one,  the  question  of  right  and  justice.  For  a  long  time 
the  young  girl  has  been  prepared  to  understand  him ;  in  his- 
tory she  soon  recognised  the  unanimity  of  nations  in  the  idea 
of  justice ;  in  mighty  Rome,  her  father  showed  her  a  world 
of  right.  But  here  it  is  no  longer  a  question  of  study,  of  his- 
tory, of  science,  but  a  question  of  life  itself.  He  hopes 
that  in  her  impending  crisis,  in  the  love  which  will  come  of  it 
(violent  perhaps,  and  blind),  she  may  preserve  the  light  of 
justice,  of  wisdom,  and  of  reason.  At  heart,  woman  is  our 
ludge ;'  her  influence,  her  fascination,  if  it  is  unjust  and  capri- 
cious, is  only  our  despair.  To-morrow  she  will  judge,  this 
beautiful  girl.  In  the  most  modest  form,  in  a  few  low  words 
to  her  mother,  she  will  draw  tears  from  one  who  may  never 
weep  again,  who  perchance  will  die  for  that. 

She  is  so  well  prepared  both  by  the  example  of  her  mother, 
and  the  lessons  of  her  father,  by  the  atmosphere  of  reason  in 


The  Revelation  of  Heroism.  127 

which  she  has  lived,  that  she  will  be  less  liable  than  others  to 
the  caprices  of  her  sex.  But  of  the  generality,  we  may  say 
with  Proudhon,  "Woman  is  the  desolation  of  the  just." 

Say  to  her,  for  instance,  if  she  loves ;  "  Of  course,  you  deem 
this  favored  man,  the  most  worthy  of  your  lovers  ?  You  have 
discovered  in  him  something  good  and  great  ?"  And  she  will 
answer  frankly,  "  No ;  I  chose  him  because  he  pleased  me." 

In  religion  she  is  the  same.  She  makes  God  in  her  own 
image,  a  God  of  preference  and  caprice,  who  saves  whosoever 
has  pleased  him.  Love  seems  to  her  all  the  freer  for  falling  on 
the  unworthy,  on  one  who  has  no  merit  to  compel  love.  In 
feminine  theology,  God  would  say:  "I  love  thee,  because 
thou  art  a  sinner,  because  thou  deservest  nothing.  I  have 
no  reason  for  loving  thee,  but  it  is  pleasant  to  me  to  forgive." 


Oh !  how  thankful  I  am  that  her  father  has  taught  her  jus- 
tice !  for  that  teaches  her  true  love.  I  thank  him  in  the  name 
of  all  the  loving  hearts  who  will  soon  be  agitated  by  her,  who 
will  hang  upon  her  youthful  wisdom,  and  wait  for  the  decree 
of  her  lips.  Let  them  know  indeed  that,  thus  enlightened, 
only  to  the  most  worthy,  to  the  deserving,  to  the  just  man, 
above  all  to  the  man  of  noble  deeds,  in  whom  her  father 
teaches  her  to  recognise  the  lofty  beauty  of  heroic  justice,  will 
she  belong. 

What  is  this  justice?  It  is  the  right  beyond  the  right, 
ind  seemingly  opposed  to  it ;  the  injustice  of  Decius,  who 
discovered  that  it  was  just  for  the  best  man  to  die  for  all,  is 
the  deeper  mystery  of  devotion  and  sacrifice. 

Never  until  now  had  her  father  spoken  to  her  of  her  own 
time,  of  the  great  nineteenth  century,  greatest  in  invention, 
and  also  one  of  the  richest  in  heroic  devotion.  To-day,  he 
anveils  to  her  that  sacred  bleeding  side  of  the  world,  of  which 
she  has  lived  in  such  total  ignorance ;  he  repeats  to  her  the 
Golden  Legend — of  the  martyrs  dead  and  living. 

A  great  day  for  her  young  heart ! — and  how  it  transfigures 


128  The  Revelation  of  Heroism. 

her !  How  radiant  this  virgin,  and  who  would  not  accept  her 
now  for  a  symbol  of  the  future  ? 

But  no,  she  is  a  woman,  and  she  turns  pale ;  her  self-control 
cannot  restrain  a  tear  ;  one  orient  pearl  drops  from  her  beau- 
tiful eyes. 

Ye  are  rewarded,  O  ye  heroes,  who  dying  and  bequeathing 
to  your  country  all  your  dreams,  said,  "  In  the  future,  virgins 
shall  weep  for  us." 


But  enough,  enough  for  one  day.  A  gentle  woman  advances 
slowly,  smiling  and  interrupting  them.  The  mother  is  happy 
to  see  the  father  and  daughter  so  closely  united ;  she  looks  on 
them,  and  blesses  them,  and  says :  "  Ah  !  my  poor  little  one ! 
this  will  be  thy  happiest  love." 

But  will  she  love  elsewhere  ?  He  has  captured  a  glorious 
prize,  this  father,  master,  pontiff,  who  makes  revelations  of 
heroism  to  a  young,  heroic  heart,  and  fathoms  its  lowest 
depths.  One  cannot  talk  much  of  heroes  without  being  him- 
self a  hero  for  the  moment.  Such  indeed  does  he  appear  to 
the  child  who  hangs  upon  his  words ;  he  would  paint  his 
ideal,  but  she  sees  but  him. 

We  know  the  enthusiastic  love  of  Mme.  de  Stae'l  for  her 
father ;  and  I  have  no  doubt  that  that  young  girl,  then  all 
nature,  all  passion,  powerful,  eloquent,  divine,  exalted  him 
above  himself.  He  was  great  in  her  eyes,  and  that  made  him 
so — or  at  least  contributed  to  it.  Commonplace  before  and 
after,  but  in  that  solemn  hour,  young,  bold,  transfigured,  he 
arose  to  the  noble  idea  of  '89 — the  infinite  hope  of  equality. 
He  might  change,  he  might  fall,  and  she  too,  under  his  influ- 
ence. No  matter — the  child's  dream,  one  moment  realized, 
took  the  measure  of  the  whole  world. 


This  is  a  strong  tie  then,  so  strong  that  all  others  seem 
i^eak  and   insufficient.     I  have   seen   other   daughters,  less 


The  Revelation  of  Heroism.  129 

known,  but  not  less  admirable,  in  whom  this  first  affection 
seemed  to  have  closed  the  heart  against  all  others.  The 
sweetness  and  delicacy  of  the  close  intimacy  they  enjoyed  in 
the  filial  relation  seemed  attainable  in  no  other.  One  had  a 
father  nearly  blind,  and  she  was  his  eyes;  he  saw  through 
her,  she  loved  through  him.  For  another,  the  rest  of  the 
world  had  been  destroyed,  her  father  existed  alone;  she 
declared  that  with  him  she  would  welcome  the  profoundest 
solitude  at  either  pole.  "  Talk  not  to  me,"  said  she,  "  of  the 
divorce  that  men  call  marriage !" 

For  our  own  daughter  there  remains  to  us  the  serious  duty 
of  warning  her  of  the  common  fate.  Alas !  our  pure  and 
tender  union  can  be  but  transient.  Nature  urges  us  on,  and 
does  not  allow  love  to  fall  back  upon  itself. 

It  is  a  painful  task  to  tear  heart  from  heart,  to  calm,  to 
regulate  the  naive  impulses  of  the  child,  and  lead  it  on  to  wis- 
dom :  "  My  dear  child,  in  your  beautiflil  season  of  eager  and 
radiant  life,  which  vivifies  all  things,  one  thing  escapes  you 
which  you  must  sometimes  recall — death  ! 

"  Our  undying  love  can  avail  you  nothing ;  your  mother 
and  I  must  soon  leave  you.  What,  if  loving  me  too  well,  you 
should  wed,  in  me,  grief? 

"  Of  late,  the  intimacy  of  this  normal  initiation,  the  deep 
joy  I  have  felt  in  revealing  to  you  the  elements  of  man's 
greatness,  have  too  fondly  enraptured  your  heart,  my  child, 
and  identified  it  with  mine.  You  have  seen  me  in  your  filial 
illusion,  young  with  the  eternal  youth  of  the  heroes  I  have 
described,  and  at  the  same  time  mature,  calm,  wise,  with  the 
gift  you  call  the  sweetness  of  autumn.  All  this,  my  daughter, 
is  not  what  God  designs  for  you.  For  you  is  the  beginning, 
not  the  end.  You  require  the  brave,  fierce  strength  of  those 
who  have  much  to  do,  in  whom  time  may  do  its  work,  to  soften 
and  ameliorate.  Their  present  defects  are  often  excellences 
in  the  future.  Your  gentleness  is  only  too  inclined  to  cherish 
the  gentleness  of  a  father.  I  wish  for  you — and  may  God 
grant  you — the  energy  of  a  husband. 

0* 


130  The  Revelation  of  Heroism. 

"  At  this  very  time  you  are  already  the  beginning  of  a 
wife ;  another  initiation  awaits  you,  and  other  duties.  Wife 
and  mother,  wise  friend,  and  universal  comforter,  you  are 
created  to  be  the  happiness  and  the  salvation  of  many.  Take 
heart,' then,  my  daughter,  and  the  cheerful  courage  one  feels 
in  marching  to  duty.  Though  my  heart  may  suffer  in  teach- 
ing you  these  sterner  laws  of  life,  it  yet  bears  itself  proudly. 

"  Does  the  lover  exist  whom  we  would  desire  for  you  ?  I 
know  not ;  but  whatever  happens,  love  will  not  fail  you.  The 
maternal  is  the  purest  love,  and  you  will  be  a  mother  to  all. 
All  shall  recognise  in  you  the  most  benign  reflection  of  Provi- 
dence." 


BOOK    II. — -WOMAN    IN    THE    FAMILY, 
-o- 

I. 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  WILL  LOVE  MOST. A  DIFFERENT  RACE. 

BEFORE  pursuing  further  the  young  girl's  destiny,  which  in 
our  first  book  we  have  been  tracing,  let  us  take  a  general 
view  of  marriage,  and  the  physiological  questions  of  race 
and  amalgamation. 

Love  is  the  mediator  of  the  world,  the  redeemer  of  all 
human  races.  Love  means  peace,  harmony,'  unity,  and  is  the 
great  peace-maker.  Political  hostilities,  discords,  contrary  in- 
terests, all  these  are  as  nothing  to  it ;  it  cancels  and  overcomes 
them  ;  or,  even  more,  it  laughs  and  mocks  at  them.  Diversity 
indeed  is  the  very  thing  it  prefers ;  contrast  is  a  seduction,  the 
unknown  a  charm,  a  mystery  which  it  would  fathom ;  the  con- 
trariety which  might  be  expected  to  blunt,  only  whets  the 
edge  of  its  desire. 

Every  one  who  has  been  in  Berne,  has  seen  the  portrait  of 
Magdalena  Nageli,  with  the  huge  chamois  gloves — a  robust 
woman  and  a  fruitful  mother,  who  was  beloved  for  her  great 
strength.  Though  daughter  of  a  patrician  of  Berne,  she  was 
engaged  in  the  famjly  washing,  at  a  fountain  with  her  servants, 
when  there  passed  by  a  young  noble,  of  a  house  always  hostile 
to  hers — an  hereditary  enmity,  like  that  of  the  Montagus  and 
Capulets  in  Romeo  and  Juliet ;  and  the  young  man  lingered  to 


132        The    Woman  who  will  Love  Most. 

gaze  at  the  beautiful  girl,  as  she  clapped  the  linen  with  a  hand 
of  iron  and  wrung  it  with  an  arm  of  steel.  He  saw  that 
there  would  be  born  of  her  a  race  of  men  as  strong  as  bears ; 
so  he  hastened  at  once  to  his  enemy's  palace,  and  implored 
him  for  his  friendship  and  his  daughter,  because  he  despaired 
of  ever  finding  another  woman  so  vigorously  framed. 

The  most  energetic  races  on  earth  have  sprung  from  a 
union  of  opposite,  or  seemingly  opposite  elements:  for  in- 
stance, the  blending  of  the  white  man  with  the  black  woman, 
which  produces  the  mulatto,  a  race  of  extraordinary  vigor; 
or  on  the  contrary,  of  identical  elements ;  for  example,  the 
Persians  and  the  Greeks,  who  married  their  near  relatives. 
Which  is  precisely  the  way  in  which  race-horses  are  improved  ; 
they  are  permitted  to  breed  only  with  their  own  stock,  so  as 
to  refine  their  blood. 

In  the  first  case,  the  principle  consists  in  the  fact  that  there 
is  so  much  more  attraction  between  opposite;  the  negress 
adores  the  white  man.  In  the  second  case,  it  proceeds  from 
the  perfect  harmony  of  likes,  which  co-operate. 

The  native  speciality  accumulates  and  increases  from  mar- 
riage to  marriage.  The  races  deemed  inferior,  only  appear 
so  from  their  need  of  a  culture  contrary  to  ours,  and  especially 
from  their  need  of  love.  How  touching  are  they  in  this 
aspect,  and  how  well  they  merit  a  return  from  the  favored 
races,  who  find  in  them  an  infinite  source  of  physical  regenera- 
tion and  youth  ! 

The  river  thirsts  for  the  clouds,  the  desert  for  the  river,  the 
black  woman  for  the  white  man.  She  of  all  others  is  the 
most  loving,  the  most  generating ;  and  this  not  only  because 
of  her  youthful  blood,  but,  wre  must  also  admit,  from  the  rich- 
ness of  her  heart.  She  is  loving  among  the  loving,  good 
among  the  good  (ask  the  travellers  whom  she  has  so  often 
saved).  Goodness  is  creation,  it  is  fruitfulness,  it  is  the  very 
benediction  of  a  holy  act.  The  fact  that  this  woman  is  so  fruit, 
ful,  I  attribute  to  her  treasures  of  tenderness,  to  that  ocean 
of  goodness  wThich  permeates  her  heart. 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         133 

"Africa  is  a  woman;  her  races  are  feminine,"  says,  very 
truly,  Gustavus  d'Eichthall.  The  revelation  of  Africa  in  the 
red  race  of  Egypt  was  in  the  reign  of  the  great  Isis  (Osiris 
was  secondary) .  In  many  of  the  black  tribes  of  Central  Africa, 
the  women  rule ;  and  they  are  as  intelligent  as  they  are  amia- 
ble and  kind.  We  see  this  in  Hayti,  where  they  not  only  im- 
provise charming  little  songs  for  their  festivals,  inspired  by 
their  aifections,  but  in  business  operations  solve  very  compli- 
cated mental  problems. 

It  was  a  pleasure  to  me  to  learn  that  in  Hayti,  through 
liberty,  comfort,  and  intelligent  culture,  the  negress  is  disap- 
pearing, and  that  without  amalgamation.  She  is  becoming 
the  true  black  woman,  with  straight  nose  and  thin  lips ;  even 
her  hair  is  changing.  The  coarse  and  bloated  features  of  the 
negro  on  the  coasts  of  Africa  are  (like  the  swollen  hippopo- 
tamus) an  effect  of  his  burning  climate,  which  at  certain 
seasons  is  drenched  with  warm  floods.  These  floods  fill  the 
valleys  with  refuse,  which  decays  there ;  and  the  fermentation 
swells  and  puffs  up  everything,  just  as  dough  rises  in  an  oven. 
But  there  is  nothing  of  all  this  in  the  dryer  climates  of  Cen- 
tral Africa.  The  frightful  anarchy  of  petty  wars,  and  the 
slave-trade,  which  desolate  the  coasts,  contribute  not  a  little  to 
this  ugliness ;  and  it  is  the  same  in  the  American  States  under 
the  influence  of  slavery.  Even  there,  where  she  remains  a 
negress,  with  no  refinement,  the  black  woman  is  still  very 
beautiful.  She  possesses  the  charm  of  supple  youth,  which 
the  Greek  beauty,  formed  by  gymnastics  and  always  a  lit- 
tle masculinized,  never  had.  She  may  scorn  not  only  the 
odious  Hermaphrodite,  but  the  muscular  beauty  of  the  crouch- 
ing Venus  (in  the  Jardin  des  Tuileries).  The  black  is  a  very 
different  woman  from  the  proud  ladies  of  Greece ;  she  is 
essentially  young  in  blood,  in  heart,  and  in  body — of  gentle, 
child-like  humility,  never  sure  of  pleasing,  ready  to  do  any- 
thing in  order  to  displease  less.  No  tyranny  wearies  her 
obedience ;  annoyed  by  her  face,  she  is  in  no  wise  comforted 
by  her  perfect  form,  so  full  of  touching  languor,  and  elastic 


134        The  Woman  who  will  love  Most. 

freshness.  She  throws  at  your  feet  what  you  were  about  to 
adore ;  she  trembles  and  begs  your  pardon — she  is  so  grateful 
for  the  pleasure  she  bestows !  She  loves,  and  her  whole  heart 
flows  into  her  warm  embrace. 

Only  let  her  be  loved,  and  she  will  do  anything,  learn  any- 
thing. In  the  black  race,  the  woman  must  first  be  elevated, 
and  through  love  she  will  elevate  the  man  and  the  child.  But 
for  her  there  must  be  a  system  of  education  entirely  contrary 
to  ours.  Cultivate  in  her  first,  what  she  already  has  so  richly, 
the  sense  of  rhythm  (dancing,  music,  etc.) ;  and  through  the 
art  of  design  lead  her  on  to  reading,  to  the  sciences,  and  the 
agricultural  arts.  She  will  be  in  raptures  with  nature  as  soon 
as  she  learns  of  it.  When  the  earth  is  made  known  to  her — 
so  beautiful,  so  good,  so  womanly — she  will  fall  in  love  with 
it,  and  with  more  energy  than  one  would  expect  from  her  cli- 
mate, she  will  bring  about  a  marriage  between  the  earth  and 
man.  Africa  had  only  the  red  Isis;  America  shall  have  the 
black  Isis,  a  glowing  female  genius,  to  impregnate  nature  and 
reanimate  exhausted  races. 

Such  is  the  virtue  of  the  black  blood,  that  wrherever  a  drop 
of  it  falls,  everything  revives ;  no  more  old  age — a  young  and 
puissant  energy,  it  is  the  very  fountain  of  youth.  In  South 
America  and  elsewhere,  we  behold  more  than  one  noble  race 
languishing,  drooping,  dying ;  why  is  that  so  when  they  have 
life  at  their  very  doors  ?  The  Spanish  Republicans,  true  nobles 
and  perfect  gentlemen,  were  better  masters  than  the  other  colo- 
nists ;  they  were  generously  the  first  to  abolish  slavery.  Ah !  in 
return,  beneficent  Africa  can  restore  them  to  strength  and  life. 

Observe  this  African  race — so  gay,  so  kind,  so  loving.  From 
the  day  of  its  resurrection,  at  its  first  contact,  by  love,  with 
the  white  race,  it  furnished  the  latter  with  an  extraordinary 
combination  of  faculties  which  give  force,  in"  a  man  of  inex- 
naustible  powers— a  man,  did  I  say  ?  rather  an  element,  like 
an  inextinguishable  volcano  or  a  great  American  river.  How 
long  was  it  without  the  rapturous  gift  of  improvization,  which 
for  the  last  fifty  years  it  has  possessed  ?  No  matter,  for  all 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         135 

that  it  affords  the  best  machinist,  and  the  most  vivid  dramatist 
since  Shakespeare. 

We  find  an  unknown  source  of  beauty  in  the  black  race. 
The  red  rose,  which  was  formerly  the  only  hue  admired,  has, 
we  must  confess,  but  little  variety.  Thanks  to  the  art  which 
combines,  we  have  the  numberless  tea-roses  now,  with  their 
thousand  shades, — and  others  still  more  delicate,  veined  or 
tinted  with  faint  blue.  Our  great  painter,  Prud'hon,  has 
painted  nothing  more  lovingly  than  the  beautiful  dark  woman 
in  the  hall  of  the  Louvre.  She  is  a  little  in  the  shade,  like  a 
mystery  unveiling  itself.  Her  beauty  is  seen  as  through  a 
cloud.  Her  lovely  eyes  are  not  large,  but  deep,  and  full  of 
expression.  The  spectator,  who  perhaps  sees  in  her  what  is 
in  his  own  heart,  regards  her  as  Night  shrouded  in  Passion. 

A  dark  and  glowing  picture !  And  yet  I  have  seen  one 
somewhat  clearer,  and  even  prettier.  Last  winter,  visiting  an 
eminent  Haytian,  as  distinguished  in  literature  as  in  business, 
I  was  received,  in  his  absence,  by  a  young  lady,  as  timid  as 
she  was  charming,  whose  rare  beauty  took  me  by  surprise.  A 
scarcely  perceptible  shade  of  delicious  lilac  threw  over  her 
roses  a  mysterious  magical  charm,  quite  indescribable.  Pre- 
sently she  blushed,  and  the  fire  of  her  eyes  would  have  dazzled 
the  two  worlds. 

A  thousand  honors  to  the  black  France !  for  so  would  I 
name  Hayti,  since  her  kindly  people  so  love  her  who  oppressed 
their  fathers.  Receive  my  vows,  O  youthful  state  !  and  may 
we  afford  thee  protection  in  atonement  for  the  past,  and  develop 
thy  free  genius,  the  genius  of  that  cruelly  calumniated  race 
whose  sole  civilized  representative  in  this  world  thou  art.  By 
an  equal  title  thou  art  representative  of  the  genius  of  woman. 
Through  thy  chjjrming  women,  so  loving  and  so  intelligent, 
must  thou  cultivate  thyself  and  organize  thy  schools.  Such 
tender  mothers  will,  I  am  sure,  become  admirable  instructors. 
A  rigid  normal-school  for  the  governesses  and  school-teachers 
(especially  after  the  delightful  method  of  Froebel)  is  the  insti- 
tution I  would  first  desire  for  Hayti. 


136        The  Woman  who  will  Love  Most. 

How  France  has  been  loved !  How  deeply  do  I  still  mourn 
for  the  love  and  friendship  with  which  the  tribes  of  North 
America  welcomed  us — so  proud  and  fierce  a  race !  It  is 
really  a  glory  to  us  that  those  men,  with  the  piercing  eyes  and 
the  second-sight  of  the  hunter,  preferred  us  for  their  daugh- 
ters, and  at  once  discerned  the  truth — that  a  Frenchman  is  a 
superior  man.  As  a  soldier  he  lives  everywhere,  and  as  a 
lover  he  creates  everywhere. 

The  Englishman  and  the  German,  strong  and  well-formed 
as  they  appear,  are  both  less  robust  and  less  generative  ;  they 
can  do  nothing  with  the  foreigner.  If  the  English  or  German 
woman  is  not  always  at  hand,  following  them  on  their  jour- 
neys, their  race  dies  out.  Soon  there  will  be  nothing  left  of 
the  English  in  India — no  more  than  the  Franks  of  Clovis 
among  us,  or  the  Lombards  in  Lombardy. 

The  black  woman's  love  for  us  is  perfectly  natural ;  that  of 
the  red  woman,  the  American  Indian,  is  more  surprising.  She 
is  stern,  haughty,  and  sombre.  A  Frenchman's  gaiety,  some- 
times rather  volatile,  might  have  shocked  her.  Her  deep  pro- 
phetic powers  could  hardly  be  expected  to  consort  with  our  joy- 
ous dancers,  who  even  in  the  wilderness,  while  an  eight  months' 
whiter  reigned,  danced  to  the  songs  of  Paris.  But  she  knew 
them  to  be  brave,  she  saw  that  they  were  serious,  kind, 
loving,  helpful,  fraternizing  at  once  with  her  tragic  warriors ; 
and  so  they  found  favor  in  her  eyes.  If  she  checked  the 
audacity  of  our  wild  scape-graces  who  sometimes  intruded  on 
her  privacy,  it  was  in  delicate,  dignified  words,  that  did  not 
wound.  The  reply  of  the  betrothed  maiden  is  well  known. 
"  The  friend  I  have  before  my  eyes  prevents  my  seeing 
you." 

These  red  women  treated  us  like  boisterous  children,  who 
fire  sometimes  a  little  troublesome  to  their  mother  or  their 
sister,  but  she  does  not  love  them  the  less. 

From  these  amours  a  mixed  race  remains — the  Franco- 
Indians  ;  but  they  are  scattered — few  in  number,  and  gra- 
dually dying  out ;  the  noble  race  is  fast  becoming  extinct. 


The  Woman  who  will  Love  Most.       137 

In  a  hundred  years  what  will  be  left  of  them?  Perhaps 
Preault's  bust. 

A  doleful  image — ah !  so  very  sad — which  the  great  sculptor 
of  tombs  seized  upon  instinctively,  with  unconscious  genius, 
and  which  remains  to  perpetuate  the  poor  but  noble  woman 
of  the  race  that  Chateaubriand  caricatured. 

Some  ten  years  ago,  an  American  speculator  bethought  him 
of  exhibiting  in  Europe  a  large  family  of  lowas.  The  men 
were  magnificent,  of  a  proud  and  regal  beauty — on  their 
necks  the  claws  of  bears,  significant  of  combats.  Very  strong 
— yet  not  with  the  great  muscles  of  the  blacksmith  or  the 
boxer,  but  with  beautiful  arms,  almost  like  a  woman's.  A 
child  too,  ten  years  old,  was  like  a  pretty  Egyptian  statue  of 
red  marble — perfect,  but  with  a  fearful  gravity.  You  could 
not  look  on  him  without  thinking,  "That  is  the  son  of  a  hero." 

What  consoled  these  kings  for  being  made  a  show  of  on  a 
stage,  like  monkeys,  was,  I  think,  their  latent  scorn  of  the 
crowd  of  superfine  gentlemen,  who  were  there  with  their 
opera-glasses — volatile,  restless,  gesticulaters,  the  veritable 
monkeys  of  Europe.  The  only  person  in  the  party  who 
seemed  sad  was  a  woman,  the  wife  of  a  renowned  warrior 
named  "  The  Wolf,"  and  mother  of  the  child.  She  had  suffered 
much  before,  but  how  much  more  here !  She  drooped ;  she 
died.  Alas !  what  could  France  offer  to  one  of  the  last  of 
those  poor  women  who  had  loved  France  so  well  ?  Nothing, 
but  a  tomb  to  preserve  the  fire  of  a  lost  genius.  Antiquity 
(even  the  Jewish)  has  never  had,  nor  known,  nor  dreamed 
of  anything  so  sad  ;  for  here  we  behold  a  superior  being  who 
has  not  only  endured  every  personal  misfortune  and  sorrow, 
but  is  accursed  in  not  having  been  left  to  the  legitimate  expan- 
sions of  his  race.  Hidden,  but  mighty  grief  of  the  American 
world !  What  with  his  eternal  war  with  the  wilderness  and 
his  savage  contests  with  bears  and  men,  the  Indian  has  not 
been  permitted  to  reveal  himself  fully.  And  then  the  prosaic 
power  of  old  Europe  laid  before  him,  in  guns  and  fire-water, 
every  instrument  of  treachery  or  conflict. 


138          The  Woman  who  will  Love  Most. 

She  looks  all  this  in  the  face,  this  woman — like  a  sphynx, 
stern  and  bitter — and  yet  under  that  bitterness,  oh  !  the  heart 
of  the  mother  and  the  wife !  How  gladly  in  the  long 
famine  of  winter  would  she  have  cut  bloody  morsels  from  her 
own  body  to  nourish  her  little  one !  With  what  joy,  to  save 
it,  would  she  have  been  burned  at  the  stake  by  a  hostile 
tribe !  And  what  unfathomable  depths  of  love  would  not  the 
hero  of  her  choice  have  found  in  her ! 

One  indeed  felt,  in  gazing  on  her,  the  mysterious  infinite 
of  pride  and  silence  she  concealed.  Her  life  was  as  mute 
as  her  death.  All  the  tortures  in  the  world  would  no  more 
have  drawn  from  her  a  sigh  than  the  sting  of  love.  She  had 
not  lost  the  power  of  speech  ;  she  spoke  as  she  ever  did,  with 
the  thrilling  expressions  of  the  strange  world,  enigmatical 
and  gloomy,  that  she  contained  within  her ;  strange !  but  per- 
haps nothing  greater  in  all  the  realm  of  mind. 


XL 

WOMAN    WHO    WILL    LOVE    MOST. THE    SAME    RACE. 

LOVE  has  its  earthly  plan.  Its  true  aim  is  to  unite,  to 
blend  all  races  in  one  universal  marriage ;  so  that  from  China 
to  Ireland,  from  the  north  pole  to  the  south,  all  shall  be 
brothers,  brothers-in-law,  nephews — like  the  Scotch  clans,  for 
instance,  the  six  thousand  Campbells  all  cousins.  It  should 
be  the  same  with  all  humanity.  We  should  form  but  a  single 
clan. 

A  beautiful  dream !  but  we  must  not  yield  to  it  too  soon. 
In  such  a  union  the  blood  of  all  races  being  mingled  together, 
suppose,  which  would  be  difficult;  that  it  should  blend — I 
imagine  it  would  be  very  pale.  A  certain  neutral,  colorless, 
faded  element  would  be  the  result.  Very  many  special  cha- 
racteristics, all  charming,  would  be  lost;  and  the  definitive 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         139 

rictory  of  love,  in  that  total  fusion,  would  be  fatal  to  love 
itself. 

An  able  intelligent  book  on  the  mingling  of  races  is  much 
needed.  We  must  not  suppose  that  they  can  be  blended 
with  impunity.  An  indiscriminate  mingling  degrades  the 
race,  or  ruins  it.  It  is  only  successful  between  sympathetic 
races,  seemingly  opposed,  but  not  so  in  reality.  Between  the 
negro  and  the  white  there  is  no  anatomical  opposition,  of  any 
importance.  The  mixed  race  lives  and  is  strong.  On  the 
contrary,  between  the  French  and  English,  which  seem  so 
nearly  related,  there  is  even  in  the  skeleton  a  marked  differ- 
ence. The  offspring  are  either  of  short  life,  or  dwarfed,  or 
in  their  ensemble  present  some  visible  discordance. 

Between  the  French  and  the  German  the  results  vary  con- 
siderably. The  man  finds  a  great  charm  in  such  a  marriage. 
Parched,  burning,  of  an  eager  mind,  he  enjoys  by  contrast 
the  moral  freshness — he  finds  music,  an  appreciation  of  nature, 
and  complete  amiability,  which  render  life  very  pleasant  to 
him,  although  perhaps  a  little  monotonous.  The  child  (if  there 
is  one)  does  not  always  live.  Generally  it  is  frail,  but  charm- 
ing. Rarely  does  it  preserve  the  paternal  fire ;  neither  French 
nor  German,  it  becomes  European. 

I  one  day  asked  an  intelligent  young  man,  who  was  teach- 
ing some  wise  birds  to  read  and  calculate,  if  his  little  heroes 
were  not  raised  above  their  kind  by  skilful  blending,  if  they 
were  not  mixed  ?  On  the  contrary,  said  he,  they  are  of  a 
very  pure  race,  not  impaired  by  combining. 

This  set  me  to  reflecting  on  our  actual  tendency  toward  the 
mingling  of  races,  and  the  belief,  often  incorrect,  that  combin- 
ing, as  it  does,  the  endowments  and  the  simple  elements  of 
both,  the  mixed  race  is  necessarily  superior. 

Among  those  of  our  great  writers  whom  I  have  known, 
only  three  are  of  mixed  race.  Six  are  pure  Frenchmen ;  and 
the  three  of  mixed  blood,  being  foreign,  not  through  the 
father,  but  the  grandfather,  have  three-fourths  French  ele- 
ment, a  very  strong  predominance  of  the  national  sap. 


140         The  Woman  who  will  love  Most. 

One  important  point  to  consider,  which  may  seem  para- 
doxical, is  that  foreign  women,  of  the  most  distant  races,  are 
easier  to  become  acquainted  with  than  European — especially 
than  French  women. 

If  I  marry  an  Oriental  I  can  very  easily  foretell  what  my 
marriage  will  be.  One  can  foresee  and  determine  the  Asiatic 
wife,  through  great  classes — race,  nation,  tribe.  Even  in 
Europe,  the  man  who  marries  a  German  woman,  appropriat- 
ing her,  transplanting  her,  is  almost  sure  to  have  a  peaceful 
life.  The  ascendancy  of  the  French  mind  turns  all  the  chances 
in  his  favor. 

But  races  in  which  the  personality  is  strong,  are  not  so  safe. 
They  say  the  Circassian  maidens  like  to  be  sold,  feeling  sure 
of  reigning  wherever  they  go,  and  putting  their  masters  under 
their  feet.  It  is  almost  the  same  with  the  Polish,  the  Hunga- 
rian, the  French  women — the  superior  energies  of  Europe. 
They  have  often  a  masculine  intellect ;  they  marry  their  hus- 
bands, rather  than  are  married.  So  it  is  necessary  to  be 
acquainted  with  them,  to  study  them  beforehand,  to  know  if 
they  are  women  at  all. 

The  French  personality  is  the  most  active,  most  individual, 
in  Europe — the  most  complex  too,  and  most  difficult  to  under- 
stand. I  speak  especially  of  the  daughters.  There  is  less  dif- 
ference among  the  men,  moulded  as  they  are  by  the  army,  by 
centralization,  by  the  machinery  of  a  quasi-identical  education. 

Between  one  French  woman  and  another  the  difference  is 
immense,  but  between  the  French  maiden  and  the  French 
woman,  as  till  greater  difference.  So,  the  difficulty  in  choosing 
is  not  slight,  but  the  foretelling  of  them  is. 

In  return,  when  they  yield,  and  are  constant,  they  permit  a 
more  thorough  and  closer  intimacy,  I  think,  than  any  other 
European  women.  The  English  woman,  an  excellent  wife, 
obeys  by  the  letter  of  the  law,  but  always  remains  a  little 
obstinate,  and  changes  but  little.  The  German  woman,  so 
loving  and  gentle,  wishes  to  belong  to  her  husband,  to  assimi- 
late herself  with  him ;  but  she  is  effeminate,  dreamy,  and  in 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         141 

spite  of  herself,  fickle.  The  Frenchwoman  brings  you  a  prize ; 
she  reacts  on  you ;  and  when  she  has  received  your  thoughts 
most  clearly,  she  gives  you  back  the  charm,  the  personal,  inti- 
mate fragrance  of  her  free  womanly  heart. 

One  day  I  met,  after  twenty  years'  absence,  a  Frenchman, 
living  in  a  foreign  country,  and  married  there.  I  asked  him 
jestingly,  if  he  had  not  married  some  superb  English  rose,  or 
a  beautiful  German  blonde.  He  answered  seriously,  but  not 
without  vivacity,  "  Yes,  Monsieur,  those  are  very  beautiful, 
more  brilliant  than  ours.  I  compare  them  to  that  splendid 
fruit,  which  gardeners  cultivate  to  the  highest  development, 
the  magnificent  pine-apple  strawberry.  The  flavor  is  not 
wanting — it  fills  the  mouth ;  one  only  misses  the  fragrance. 
I  prefer  the  French  woman,  and  southern  French  too ;  for  she 
is  the  wild  strawberry." 

Whatever  we  may  think  of  this  poetical  comparison  of  a 
newly  married  man,  it  remains  fixed  and  sure  that  the  per- 
sonality of  the  French  woman  is  extremely  powerful  for  good 
or  evil.  So  marriages  in  France  should  be  prudent,  and  pre- 
pared with  serious  reflection ;  yet  it  is  the  very  country  of  all 
Europe  in  which  marriages  are  most  precipitate.  This  arises 
not  merely  from  the  quick  calculations  of  interest  which,  once 
arranged,  urge  marriages  to  conclusion ;  it  results  also  from 
the  great  defect  of  our  nation — impatience.  We  hurry  every- 
thing. 

I  think  the  evil  is  increasing.  In  proportion  as  we  become 
more  earnest  in  business,  precipitation  in  matters  of  the  heart 
seems  to  increase.  Our  language  has  lost  a  number  of  elegant, 
graceful  words  which  once  marked  the  degrees  and  shades  of 
love.  What  is  left  is  curt  and  hard.  The  heart  is  not 
changed  at  bottom;  but  the  people,  jaded  with  wars,  revolu- 
tions, and  deeds  of  violence,  are  tempted  to  look  in  every- 
thing for  an  enterprise,  a  coup-de-main.  The  marriage  of 
Romulus,  by  stratagem,  would  have  pleased  them  only  too 
well.  They  must  have  razzias;  I  could  almost  call  it  viola- 
tion by  contract.  Sometimes  the  victims  weep — not  always  ; 


142         The  Woman  who  will  love  Most. 

they  are  but  little  astonished  in  these  times  of  lotteries — lot- 
teries of  money,  of  war,  of  pleasure,  of  charity — to  be  thus 
pet  up  in  a  lottery.  Frequently  these  fortuitous  marriages 
suddenly  unmask,  the  very  next  day,  an  unexpected  battery  of 
irreparable  evils,  of  ruin  and  ridicule,  which  strike  full  in  the 
face. 

Physiologically  such  unions,  often  impossible  as  unions,  pro- 
duce abortions,  monsters  that  die  or  kill  the  mother,  or  render 
her  ill  for  life — in  short,  which  make  a  nation  ugly.  Morally 
they  are  still  worse,  for  the  father,  who  thus  marries  his  daugh- 
ter, is  not  ignorant  of  the  consolation  she  will  soon  accept. 
Marriage  under  such  conditions  constitutes  and  regulates  the 
universality  of  adultery,  makes  intimate  divorces,  often  thirty 
years  of  mutual  distaste,  and  in  the  marriage  couch  a  temper- 
ature that  would  freeze  mercury. 

Our  peasants  were  formerly  firm  in  marrying  those  with 
whom  they  were  best  acquainted  —  a  relative  perhaps. 
Throughout  the  Middle  Ages  they  struggled  against  the 
church,  which  forbade  the  marriage  of  cousins.  The  restric- 
tion, at  first  excessive  (even  to  the  seventh  degree,  and  later 
to  the  fourth),  no  longer  exists  in  reality.  One  can  have  dis- 
pensation if  he  likes,  to  marry  his  cousin,  or  his  niece,  or  the 
sister  of  his  first  wife.  What  is  the  result?  That  now, 
when  it  is  easy,  very  few  profit  by  it. 

The  casuists,  those  false  geniuses,  who  in  almost  everything 
have  cultivated  the  art  of  finding  the  wrong  side  of  good 
sense,  say,  pleasantly :  "  If  wedded  love  be  added  to  the  love 
of  kindred,  there  will  be  too  much  love."  History  teaches 
precisely  the  contrary.  Among  the  Hebrews,  who  at  first 
allowed  marriage  with  sisters,  we  see  the  young  people,  far 
from  caring  for  each  other,  going  out  of  the  family,  out  of 
the  nation — running  after  the  daughters  of  the  Philistines. 
Among  the  Greeks,  who  could  marry  their  half-sisters,  such 
marriages  were  very  cold,  and  but  seldom  productive.  Solon 
felt  himself  called  upon  to  inscribe  in  the  law  that  husbands 
should  be  required  to  remember  their  wives  but  once  in  a  de- 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         143 

cade ;  and  the  marriage  with  sisters  was  abolished.  The  Ro- 
mans married  no  closer  than  their  cousins. 

In  fact,  marriage  ought  to  be  a  new  birth.  The  delightful 
moment  when  the  wife  first  enters  her  bridal  home,  is  lost  to 
the  sister.  The  beautiful  Greek,  as  we  see  her  in  the  marbles 
of  the  Parthenon,  never  entered  such  a  house ;  but  was  there 
from  her  birth,  seated  on  the  paternal  hearth.  She  faithfully 
represented  the  spirit  of  father  and  mother,  the  old  familiar 
traditions.  She  could  lend  herself  but  little  to  the  young  ideas 
of  her  brother-husband,  to  the  mobility  of  Athens.  Magnificent 
as  she  was,  she  was  somewhat  tiresome.  The  race  lost  nothing 
by  it,  it  was  the  most  beautiful  in  the  world ;  but  love  lost 
much,  and  the  family  was  hardly  renewed. 

But  Greece  cared  little  for  that ;  she  dreaded  fecundity, 
and  only  wished  to  strengthen  native  genius,  by  cultivating 
to  the  highest  degree  the  vigor  of  each  lineage,  and  its  pecu- 
liar originality.  She  looked — not  at  numbers — but  simply  at 
the  hero ;  and  she  obtained  him  by  the  concentration  of  ener- 
getic races,  and  a  marvellous  increase  of  activity,  which,  in  a 
short  time,  it  is  true,  wore  out  and  exhausted  the  races. 

Breeders  of  race-horses  practise  this  very  art.  By  uniting 
animals  of  near  kin  they  accumulate  the  blood  of  the  breed. 
The  perseverance  of  a  century  in  this  direction,  produced, 
about  1789,  the  famous  Eclipse,  that  horse  of  horses,  that 
flame  more  rapid  than  voice  or  eye,  with  whom  no  horse 
dared  to  run,  and  who,  by  his  four  hundred  sons  in  twenty 
years,  fetched  the  price  of  all  Europe. 

I  have  read  all  that  has  been  written  of  late  on  this  subject, 
and  what  seems  to  me  probable,  is,  that  marriage  between 
relatives,  while  it  may  weaken  the  weak,  and  further  degenerate 
them,  may  on  the  contrary  strengthen  the  strong.  I  so  con- 
clude, not  only  from  the  experience  of  ancient  Greece,  but  of 
our  own  French  coasts.  Our  sailors,  prudent  men,  who  go 
everywhere,  and  know  everything,  and  do  not  decide  like 
peasants,  by  local  routine,  generally  marry  their  cousins,  and 
are  none  the  less  an  elite  of  strength,  intelligence,  and  beauty. 


144         The  Woman  who  will  love  Most. 

The  real  danger  in  such  unions  is  the  moral  one — real  for 
all  but  the  sailor,  who  is  free,  by  his  wandering  life,  from  over- 
whelming influences  at  home.  It  is  not  without  good  reason 
that  in  France  we  marry  our  relatives  less  and  less.  (See  the 
official  statistics.)  By  the  charm  of  common  memories,  such 
marriages  are  liable  to  retain  a  man  firmly  in  the  grooves  of 
the  past. 

The  French  woman  particularly,  exerting  an  influence 
already,  by  her  energy  and  the  wealth  she  has  brought  (for 
the  law  favors  her  more  than  any  woman  in  Europe),  if  she 
is  also  sustained  by  relatives,  may  become  at  home  a  power- 
ful instrument  of  reaction,  and  a  serious  obstacle  to  progress. 
Imagine  how  great  may  be  the  double  power  of  domestic 
and  religious  tradition,  to  trammel  and  impede:  at  every 
step  opposition,  dissension — or  at  least  sadness  and  inertia ; 
consequently,  nothing  done,  and  no  advance  made.  A  pretty 
Veronese  at  the  Louvre  expresses  this  idea  perfectly.  The 
daughter  of  Lot  is  so  slow  in  quitting  the  old  city,  which  is 
tumbling  about  her  head,  that  the  angel  takes  her  by  the  arm, 
to  drag  her  away ;  but  for  all  that,  she  manages  not  to  ad- 
vance a  step,  saying,  "  Only  wait  till  I  have  put  on  my 
shoe  I" 

We  have  no  time,  my  beauty.  So  remain,  and  be  a  pillar 
of  salt  with  your  mother ! — But  no,  we  will  not  go  alone  ;  be 
carried,  if  you  cannot  walk.  The  vigor  of  the  modern  man, 
which  can  draw  worlds  along,  will  not  be  greatly  retarded  by 
thy  weight,  poor,  light-witted  thing. 

If  the  relative  has  not  that  special  education  which  might 
associate  her  with  progress,  the  foreigner  (I  do  not  say  the 
stranger)  should  be  preferred.  She  should  be  preferred,  I 
say,  in  two  cases,  wherein  she  is  known  even  more  perfectly 
than  the  relative. 

The  first  case  I  laid  down  in  II Amour,  where  a  man  forms 
his  own  wife.  This  is  the  surest ;  for  he  knows  what  he  has 
made.  I  have  two  examples  in  my  mind. 

Two  of  my  friends,  one  an  eminent  artist,  the  other  a  dis- 


The  Woman  who  will  love  Most.         145 

tinguished  and  prolific  writer,  adopted  and  married  two 
young  persons,  entirely  fresh,  without  relatives  and  without 
culture.  Simple,  lively,  charming,  wholly  occupied  with 
household  affairs,  but  gradually  partaking  of  the  ideas  of 
their  husbands,  in  ten  or  twelve  years  they  were  completely 
transformed.  The  same  in  external  simplicity,  they  became 
mentally  ladies  of  lively  intelligence,  perfectly  understanding 
the  most  difficult  matters.  What  was  done  to  accomplish 
this  ?  Nothing  at  all.  These  two  men,  busy,  and  extremely 
productive,  have  bestowed  on  their  wives  no  express  educa- 
tion. But  their  thoughts  were  elevated,  and  they  communi- 
cated to  them  at  all  times  their  emotions,  their  projects,  the 
aim  of  their  efforts.  Love  did  the  rest. 

But  the  success,  I  grant,  is  not  always  the  same.  A  relative 
of  mine  failed  in  a  similar  attempt.  He  selected  for  a  wife  a 
Creole  child  of  a  vulgar,  worldly  class,  with  a  coquettish  step- 
mother, who  very  soon  spoiled  everything.  He  had  roved 
about  the  world  considerably,  and  was  then  a  functionary  in 
the  Department  of  Finance.  He  returned  home  sad  and 
weary,  without  the  animation,  the  fire,  of  those  great  creators 
who,  always  at  work,  have  always  a  great  deal  to  say,  to 
vivify  a  young  heart.  I  will  return  to  this  again. 

The  other  case  is  that,  in  which  of  two  men  united  in  heart, 
in  faith,  and  in  principles,  one  gives  to  the  other  his  daughter, 
reared  and  educated  in  those  principles  and  that  faith. 

This  supposes  such  a  father  as  we  saw  in  our  first  book,  on 
Education ;  it  supposes  a  mother  too — two  phenixes.  If  we 
found  them  in  the  second  generation,  we  should  realize  some- 
thing impossible  as  yet,  but  which  will  be  less  so  hereafter : 
the  hypothesis  of  two  children  brought  up  for  each  other — not 
together,  but  in  a  happy  harmony — knowing  each  other  early, 
but  seeing  each  other  for  a  short  time  at  long  intervals,  so  as 
to  become  each  other's  dream. 

All  this,  of  course,  left  free  for  the  two  young  hearts.  But 
with  a  little  diplomacy  one  may  create  and  cultivate  love. 
Nature  is  so  amiable  a  conciliator!  A  double  education 

7 


146  The  Man  who  will  love  Best. 

seems  the  only  true  logic  for  man  and  woman,  each  being 
only  a  half. 

The  eastern  idea,  of  the  same  being  divided,  and  always 
longing  to  be  united,  is  true.  One  should  sympathize  with, 
and  help  the  poor  half  to  find  its  "  other  half,"  and  restore 
the  lost  unity. 


III. 

THE    MAN    WHO    WILL    LOVE    BEST. 

IF  in  the  life  of  woman  there  is  one  period  more  fearful  than 
another,  it  is  the  marriage  of  her  daughter.  To  her,  even  the 
best,  the  happiest  marriage  is  an  overturning  of  her  existence. 
Yesterday  the  house  was  full,  now  it  is  empty.  We  did  not 
at  all  perceive  how  large  a  place  this  child  filled ;  we  were  too 
used  to  so  natural  a  happiness ;  we  are  not,  indeed,  conscious 
of  living  and  breathing ;  but  if  our  breath  fail  but  for  a  mo- 
ment, we  suffocate,  we  die. 

How  different  the  position  of  the  mother  who  can  say,  "  My 
son  is  married,"  from  that  of  her  who  must  say, "  I  have  mar- 
ried my  daughter."  The  one  receives,  the  other  gives.  One 
enriches  her  family  by  a  happy  adoption ;  the  other,  when 
the  din  of  the  wedding  is  over,  returns  home — so  poor!  shall 
we  call  it  "  severed  from  her  daughter  ?"  "  widowed  of  her 
child  ?"  No,  those  terms  do  not  express  it.  We  must  always 
regret  that  a  word  is  wanting  to  our  language — a  sad  word, 
and  full  of  lamentation — orba. 

What  she  gives  up  is  herself.  It  is  herself  who  goes  to  live 
in  the  house  of  a  stranger,  to  be  kindly  or  unkindly  treated. 
She  dwells  there  in  imagination.  The  man  is  loving  to-day  : 
but  how  will  he  be  to-morrow?  In  fact,  the  son-in-law  is  the 
least  of  all  she  has  to  worry  about.  How  will  his  family 
behave — his  mother,  whom  he  loves,  who  influences  him,  and 


The  Man  who  will  love  Best.  147 

who  rules  at  home  ?  How  many  ways  she  has  of  annoying 
the  young  wife,  to  break  her  in  perhaps,  so  that  she  shall 
oppose  her  but  little !  Therefore,  the  mother-in-law,  to  pro- 
tect her  daughter,  must  be  respectful,  and  pay  court  to  the 
mother. 

I  can  perfectly  understand  the  restlessness,  the  eager  anti- 
cipation, of  her  who  for  the  first  time  looks  on  her  future  son- 
in-law — or  at  least,  the  young  man  who  may  become  so.  Ah ! 
how  I  sympathize  with  her  secret  emotions.  She  is  smiling, 
gracious,  but  at  heart  how  moved  !  Truly,  it  is  life  or  death 
with  her ;  for  what  is  this  young  man  ?  Her  rival.  The  more 
amiable,  the  more  loveable  he  may  be,  the  more  will  the 
mother  be  forgotten. 

A  rare  moment  in  which  to  observe  her,  for  never  is 
woman  so  interesting.  That  strife  of  restrained  but  transpa- 
rent emotions  imparts  to  her  an  irresistible  natural  charm. 
She  is  beautiful  in  her  love  and  her  self-abnegation,  beautiful 
by  her  many  sacrifices.  What  has  she  not  performed  and 
suffered  to  create  this  perfect  flower  ?  Such  a  daughter  is 
the  visible  virtue  of  her  mother,  her  wisdom  and  her  purity. 
Like  every  woman  she  has  had  her  ennuis  and  her  dreams, 
and  she  has  put  them  all  to  flight  with  the  simple  words  "  my 
daughter !"  She  has  confined  herself  to  the  domestic  hearth, 
between  God  and  her  husband,  devoting  her  most  beautiful 
years  to  duty,  to  the  culture  of  one  sweet  hope.  And  now, 
is  it  strange  that  her  poor  heart  beats  so  wildly  ?  That  heart 
is  in  her  face  whatever  she  does ;  and  at  times  it  glows  with 
glorious  radiance  in  the  light  of  her  lovely  tearful  eyes.  If 
you  please,  madame,  try  to  be  less  fair.  Do  you  not  see  that 
we  are  confused,  and  know  not  what  we  say  ? 

She  is  tempted  to  make  use  of  this  power.  She  sees  that  it 
depends  wholly  on  herself,  whether  she  shall  charm  this  young 
man,  and  do  with  him  as  she  pleases.  She  might  become 
absolute  mistress  of  the  future  household ;  she  might  preserve 
her  daughter  from  the  tyrannical  influence  of  her  new  family; 
she  mihgt,  day  by  day  (for  what  is  impossible  to  a  woman  of 


148  The  Man  who  will  love  Best. 

wit  ?)  make  him  a  good  husband — amiable,  even  obedient.  To 
trust  him  now  with  her  cherished  idol,  before  she  is  sure  of 
him,  seems  impossible ;  she  must  subdue  this  son-in-law.  And 
so  behold  her,  still  young  as  she  is,  recklessly  plunging  into  dan- 
gerous coquetries.  She  thinks  she  can  stop  and  retire,  at  will, 
And  what  is  the  consequence  ?  Why  that  he  loses  his  wits, 
often  forms  mad  schemes,  and  oftener  withdraws  altogether. 
But  the  marriage  has  already  been  announced,  and  the  young 
lady  is  compromised.  What  remedy  for  that  ?  Am  I  writing 
fiction  ?  No,  it  is  what  I  myself  have  seen  more  than  once, 
and  the  cases  are  frequent.  The  mother  loves  her  daughter 
so  much,  that  to  marry  her  well  she  submits  to  the  strangest 
conditions — a  deplorable  arrangement,  which  sometimes  leaves 
all  three  overwhelmed  with  sadness  and  mortification. 

The  wisest,  the  most  reasonable,  almost  always  make  this 
mistake  :  they  choose  a  son-in-law  to  suit  themselves,  and  not 
their  daughters  ;  they  consult  their  own  fancy,  according  to  a 
certain  ideal,  more  or  less  romantic,  which  most  have  in  their 
minds.  A  double  ideal,  but  always  false — I  say  that  frankly. 
They  admire  masculine  energy  and  strength,  and  they  are 
right.  But  it  is  less  the  producing  and  creating  force  than 
the  destroying  energy  that  they  select.  Strangers  to  grand 
achievements,  completely  ignorant  of  what  constitutes  true 
strength  of  mind,  they  understand  by  valor  only  that  short- 
lived daring  which  serves  on  the  battle-field,  and  think,  like 
children,  that  it  is  fine  to  break  everything.  The  man  of 
brave  speech  has  all  the  advantage  with  them.  They  pooh- 
pooh  the  true  warrior  who  holds  his  tongue  and  shrugs  his 
shoulders. 

Their  judgment  is  no  sounder  as  to  the  gentle  than  to  the 
rude  characteristics.  They  find  a  powerful  charm  in  the  man 
who  resembles  them, — a  puppet  of  no  sex.  They  weave, 
very  awkwardly,  a  sentimental  little  romance  over  some  good- 
for-nothing,  girlish  page — Cherubino,  a  shepherd  in  a  comic 
opera — Nemorino,  more  a  woman  than  Stella.  In  their  novels, 
Proud'hon  very  truly  observes,  they  never  succeed  in  creating 


The  Man  who  will  love  Best. 

a  man   with   a  genuine  masculine  character ;    their  hero  is 
always  a  woman's  man. 

Now,  in  real  life,  and  in  so  serious  a  matter  as  a  mother 
choosing  for  her  daughter,  they  act  just  as  they  do  in  their 
novels.  Their  preference  is  often,  almost  always,  for  the 
woman's  man,  the  nice  young  fellow  of  "  correct  principles." 
In  the  first  place,  they  are  flattered  to  perceive  that  they  are 
more  energetic,  really  more  man-like  than  he.  They  think 
they  can  govern  him ;  but  they  are  often  deceived.  The 
amiable,  insipid  character  is  frequently  but  a  mask  assumed 
for  success ;  the  man,  at  heart,  is  selfish,  and  to-morrow  will 
show  what  he  is — harsh,  unfeeling,  false. 


Madam,  in  so  important  a  matter,  where  it  is  a  question 
of  life  with  you,  and  even  more  so  with  her  for  whom  you 
would  a  hundred  times  sacrifice  your  life,  will  you  allow  me  to 
lay  aside-  reserve  and  idle  subterfuges,  and  tell  you  the  plain 
truth.  Do  you  indeed  know  what  your  charming  daughter 
needs,  she  who  says  nothing,  can  say  nothing  ?  But  her  age 
and  nature  speak  for  her  ;  respect  those  voices  of  God ! 

Well !  she  needs  a  man  ! 

Don't  laugh.  The  article  is  not  so  common  as  you  may 
think.  A  loving  man  is  necessary  ;  I  mean  one  who  will 
alway  continue  to  love. 

She  needs  an  arm  and  a  heart :  a  etrong  arm,  to  uphold  her, 
and  smoothe  her  way  of  life  ;  a  rich  heart,  from  which  she  may 
draw  for  ever,  which  she  has  only  to  touch  to  elicit  the  true 
spark. 


Woman  is  conservative,  she  requires  solidity ;  and  that 
is  natural.  There  should  be  firm,  sure  soil  for  the  hearth  and 
the  cradle. 


150  The  Man  who  will  love  Best. 

But  everything  is  unstable.  Where  shall  we  find  the  firm- 
ness we  desire  ? 

No  position,  no  property  in  these  times  can  promise  that. 
Look — not  at  France,  not  at  the  Continent,  that  sea  of  sand,  in 
which  everything  is  for  ever  going  and  coming  ;  but  look  at 
that  sacred  island  of  property — old  England.  If  you  except 
five  or  six  houses  of  no  great  date,  every  estate  there  has 
changed  hands  often  within  two  hundred  years ;  only  one 
thing  is  substantial — faith.  You  need  a  man  of  faith. 

But  I  mean  active  faith. 

"  That  is,  a  man  of  action  !"  Yes,  but  productive  action — 
a  producer,  a  creator. 

The  only  man  who  has  any  chance  of  stability  in  this  world 
is  he  whose  strong  hand  renovates  it,  who  creates  it  day  by 
day,  and  if  it  were  destroyed  could  recreate  it.  The  men  who 
possess  this  action,  who  in  art,  in  science,  in  manufactures,  in 
business,  work  with  energy,  it  matters  little  how  they  define 
their  credo — they  always  have  one. 

A  beautiful  miracle !  you  say.  Yes,  madam,  beautiful,  and 
very  new  ;  it  is  faith  in  things  that  are  proved,  faith  in 
observation,  in  reason.  Would  you  know  the  secret  of  that 
increase  of  modern  activity  which  for  the  last  three  hundred 
years  has  made  every  century  infinitely  more  active,  more 
inventive,  than  the  one  that  preceded  it  ? 

This — that  men  are  no  longer  in  the  mists  of  that  fantastic 
age  which  doubted  all  realities,  and  founded  its  faith  on  dreams. 
They  stoutly  maintain  that  what  is,  is. 

You  will  find  it  also  in  the  stronger  conviction  of  certainty. 
The  vigor  of  our  actions  increases  by  the  security  that  a  firmer 
soil  bestows.  In  the  sixteenth  century,  Montaigne  doubted. 
Excuse  him ;  the  ignorant  man  had  no  idea  of  the  intellectual 
strength  his  great  precursors  had  already  displayed.  Pas- 
cal, in  the  seventeenth  century,  doubted,  because  he  chose  to 
doubt.  Galileo  and  many  others,  proved  the  earth  solid. 
To-day  thirty  new  sciences,  erected  on  thousands  of  ob- 
served and  computed  facts,  have  made  this  earth  a  rock.  Step 


The  Man  who  will  love  Best. 

with  firm  tread  and  fear  not — it  is  the  immovable  rock  of 
truth. 

The  modern  man  knows  what  he  wishes,  what  he  does,  and 
whither  he  goes. 

Who  are  the  sceptics  of  to-day  ?  Those  who  are  pleased 
to  be  so,  those  who  will  not  be  informed,  nor  know  the  times 
they  live  in  ;  those  who,  always  reserving  to  themselves  the 
right  to  change,  are  alarmed  because  there  are  so  many  immu- 
table things.  When  they  proclaim  their  doubt  I  ask,  "  What 
does  it  avail  you  ?" 

Does  this  imply  that  the  active  and  productive  men  of  these 
times  have  perfect  knowledge  of  the  thirty  sciences  which 
constitute  our  security  ?  No,  they  know  only  the  great  re- 
sults ;  they  feel  their  spirit,  they  feel  these  sciences  under  them, 
firm  and  living.  At  any  moment,  if  they  fall,  they  will  gather 
incalculable  strength  from  the  maternal  soil  of  truth. 

And  herein  is  the  real  difference  between  us  and  our  fathers. 
They  tumbled  about  in  a  marsh  of  earthy  water  or  watery 
earth,  and  when  their  feet  slipped,  they  could  do  nothing 
with  their  hands.  But  we,  no  longer  slipping,  do  much  with 
our  hands,  much  with  our  minds,  much  with  our  inventions. 
We  invent  ten  times  as  much  as  the  age  of  Voltaire,  which 
invented  ten  times  as  much  as  the  age  of  Galileo,  which  in- 
vented ten  times  as  much  as  the  age  of  Luther.  That  is  what 
makes  us  gay,  whatever  happens  ;  that  is  what  makes  us  laugh, 
and  stride  through  life  with  the  firm  step  of  giants. 

Whoever  feels  himself  powerful — that  is  to  say,  full,  strong, 
productive,  a  creator  and  a  generator — has  an  inexhaustible 
fund  of  serious  gaiety  (I  mean  that),  and  of  courage  and  love 
as  well,  madam. 

Give  your  daughter  to  such  a  man — a  man  who  will  always 
be  above  his  business,  who  will  take  her  into  his  actions,  who 
will  suck  her  into  his  whirlpool.  I  dare  swear  that  he  will 
love  her,  and  that  every  hour  of  the  day  and  the  night  (and 
there  lies  the  gist  of  the  matter)  he  will  have  much  to  tell 
her. 


152  The  Proof. 


IV. 

THE  PROOF. 

IP  God  had  given  me  a  daughter,  I  should  have  made  my- 
self beloved.  How  ?  By  exacting  a  great  deal,  by  impos- 
ing difficult  tasks — but  noble  ones  and  just. 

Of  what  use  is  royalty,  if  one  does  not  use  it  ?  Doubtless 
there  is  a  time  when  a  woman  may  do  much  for  a  man — when, 
perceiving  his  value,  she  charms  him,  by  imposing  lofty  condi- 
tions, and  requiring  him  to  give  serious  proof  of  his  love. 

Why,  sir,  at  such  a  time  all  nature  makes  an  effort,  every- 
thing rises  one  degree ;  the  flower  displays  the  sensibility 
which  is  the  charm  of  animal  life ;  the  bird  utters  a  divine 
song,  and  insect-love  bursts  even  into  flame.  And  do  you 
think  that  man  will  not  change  then,  and  be  a  little  more 
than  man  ? 

Proofs !  sir,  proofs !  else  I  care  little  for  your  insipid 
asseverations.  I  do  not  ask  you,  like  those  princesses  of  chi- 
valric  romances,  to  fetch  me  the  head  of  a  giant,  or  the 
crown  of  Trebizond.  These  are  trifles  ;  I  exact  much  more. 
I  demand  that  you  transform  me,  a  young  girl  of  obscure 
family  and  common  education,  into  a  noble,  regal,  heroic 
creature,  such  as  I  have  always  had  in  my  mind — and  that 
not  transiently,  but  by  a  complete  and  radical  transformation. 

Whatever  your  career,  bring  to  it  an  imperial  spirit  and  a 
noble  will.  Then  I  shall  have  confidence  in  you,  I  shall 
think  you  sincere ;  and,  in  my  turn,  will  see  what  I  can  do 
for  you.  He  who  can  do  nothing  for  me,  whom  love  itself 
cannot  raise  above  prose,  above  the  "  earth  to  earth  "  of  this 
age,  God  save  me  from  having  him  for  a  husband !  If  you 
cannot  change,  it  is  because  you  do  not  love. 

"  Alas !"  the  mothers  say,  "  what  would  happen  if  one 
presumed  to  use  such  severe  language  ?  Love  is  not  the 
fashion;  young  people  are  so  blase,  so  cold;  they  find  so 


The  Proof.  153 

many  opportunities  of  pleasure  everywhere,  and  are  so  little 
anxious  to  establish  themselves!  The  days  of  chivalry  are 
far  off." 

Madam,  in  all  times,  man  eagerly  prefers  the  difficult. 
In  those  days  of  chivalry,  do  you  suppose  the  young  squire 
could  not  have  had  all  the  common  girls  of  the  neighbor- 
hood ?  In  the  strange  pell-mell  and  confusion  of  the  feudal 
house,  wenches  and  ladies  were  at  the  pleasure  of  the  page. 
And  yet  he  longed  only  for  the  proudest,  the  "impossible 
she,''  her  who  made  his  life  a  nuisance.  For  her,  from  whom 
he  got  nothing,  he  would  be  a  knight ;  for  her  he  would  die  at 
Jerusalem,  and  bequeath  to  her  his  bleeding  heart. 

And  now  there  is  another  crusade,  a  crusade  of  labor  and 
study,  of  the  immense  effort  a  young  man  must  make  to 
plough  the  furrow  of  a  strong  speciality,  and  sow  that  speci- 
ality with  all  human  sciences.  Everything  depends  on  this, 
and  henceforth  he  who  does  not  know  everything,  cannot 
know  anything. 

I  see  from  here,  on  the  rue  Saint-Jacques,  by  the  opportune 
chance  of  a  half-open  window,  a  young  man  who,  early  in  the 
morning,  has  had  no  rising  to  do,  because  he  has  sat  up  all 
night ;  but  he  is  not  weary  now.  Is  it  the  morning  air  that 
has  so  wonderfully  refreshed  him  ?  No,  I  think  it  must  be 
that  letter  which  he  reads  and  re-reads,  and  wears  out,  and 
devours.  Never  did  Champollion's  zeal  peruse  the  trilingual 
scroll  with  more  of  eagerness.  A  woman's  letter,  you  may 
be  sure — short  and  elegant.  I  will  content  myself  with  tran- 
scribing a  line  :  "  Mamma,  whose  hand  is  lame,  bids  me  write 
to  you,  and  say  that  she  expects  you  to  spend  your  holidays 
here,  and  that  you  must  pass  your  final  examination  as  soon 
as  possible.  Succeed  and  come.'' 

We  must  not  forget  what  a  young  man  is  in  the  streets 
of  Paris,  lest  we  forget  his  sadness,  his  languor,  and  his 
homesickness.  To  be  sure,  science  is  beautiful  to  the  master, 
to  the  inventor,  launched  upon  the  sea  of  discovery ;  but  how 
dry  and  abstract  to  the  student !  Verily,  the  idle,  thought- 


154  The  Proof- 

less  friends,  who  never  fail  to  come  in  his  moments  of  luke- 
warmness,  find  a  fine  prize  now. 

Ah!  but  there  is  the  letter.  In  the  midst  of  his  wild  com- 
panions' talk  he  catches  a  glimpse  of  her.  She  holds  him  fast, 
and  fixes  him ;  she  serves  him  as  a  fever  or  a  headache — any- 
thing to  prevent  him  from  going  off  with  them  to-night.  So 
they  take  themselves  away,  and  my  young  friend  betakes  him- 
self to  his  letter-reading,  over  again.  He  studies  it  seriously, 
in  form  and  meaning,  and  tries  to  discover  by  the  writing  if 
she  was  moved — seizing  on  some  dash  omitted,  or  some  com- 
ma forgotten,  as  a  significant  matter.  But  the  same  letter, 
read  at  different  hours  or  moments,  is  full  of  changes ;  yes- 
terday it  was  passionate,  to-day  utterly  cold ;  stormy  one  day, 
the  next  almost  indifferent. 

Some  one,  I  know  not  who,  regretted  nothing  of  his  youth, 
"  but  a  fine  disappointment  on  a  beautiful  prairie."  Add  to 
that  the  sweet  pain  of  studying,  deciphering,  interpreting,  in 
a  hundred  ways,  the  letter  of  your  beloved. 

"  What !  a  young  lady  write  to  a  young  man  ?"  Yes,  sir, 
her  mother  wishes  it — a  wise  mother,  who  would  at  any  price 
cheer  and  guard  the  young  fellow.  But  she  by  no  means 
relishes  the  English  method,  which  proudly  thinks  it  can  bring 
flame  to  flame  without  danger.  The  Swiss  would  go  still 
farther  in  their  grossness ;  they  deem  it  well  that  the  lover 
should  spend  his  nights  with  his  betrothed,  who,  granting  all 
things  but  one,  never  fails,  they  say,  to  rise  a  virgin.  A 
virgin  ? — perhaps,  but  not  pure. 

Every  nation  .has  its  vices.  The  Germanic  races,  above  all 
bibulant  and  gluttonous,  are  so  much  the  less  inflammable. 
But  when  the  lacteal  regimen  of  English  Pamelas  is  so  thick- 
ened with  meats,  and  even  spirituous  liquors,  those  sanguine 
and  over-fed  virgins  ought  themselves  to  wish  for  better  pro- 
tection and  defence  from  their  own  passions. 

I  do  not  mean  to  say  that  it  is  not  sometimes  necessary  to 
allow  lovers  the  happiness  of  meeting  and  talking  together. 
But  such  communications,  however  pure  we  may  suppose 


The  Proof.  155 

them,  if  too  frequent,  would  be  liable  to  precipitate  their 
longings,  consuming  them  with  a  slow  fire,  and  making  them 
martyrs.  Let  us,  if  possible,  prolong  the  more  beautiful 
period  of  life.  Let  there  be  letters,  first  from  the  mother ;  and 
then,  as  matters  progress  and  become  safer,  sometimes  a  word 
from  the  daughter,  written  under  her  mother's  eye. 

But  I  have  forgotten  to  tell  how  love  begins.  Happy  they 
who  know  nothing  about  it !  who,  rocked  in  the  same  cradle, 
reared  on  the  same  hearth,  enter  at  the  same  time  upon  love 
and  life  !  like  Isis  and  Osiris,  the  divine  twins,  who  loved  each 
other  in  their  mother's  womb,  and  still  loved  after  death. 

But  the  fable  has  it,  that  even  before  they  were  born,  in 
the  darkness  of  the  maternal  prison,  they  made  the  most  of 
time,  and  their  precocious  love  was  fruitful — that  they  created 
even  before  they  lived.  We  would  not  have  our  children 
quite  so  fast  as  those  glowing  gods  of  Africa.  There  should 
be  initiation  and  patience ;  we  must  deserve  to  be  gods  before 
we  enjoy  the  divine  moment  in  its  plenitude. 

It  is  all  very  well,  very  charming,  for  them  to  live  and  play 
together  at  the  age  of  three,  four,  or  five  years ;  but  after 
that  I  deem  it  wise  to  separate  the  sexes.  Though  he  saw 
her  only  when  she  was  small,  very  small,  and  played  with 
her,  wherever  he  may  go  he  will  remember  the  pretty  little 
girl — cousin,  friend,  whatever  she  may  be  (for  at  four  years 
old  we  are  all  relations) — the  sweet  creature  to  whom  he 
behaved  badly,  with  whom  he  often  quarrelled ;  and  he  will 
be  sorry  for  it,  recollecting  her  amiability,  her  good  temper, 
and  her  childish  wisdom.  Thoughtless  as  he  is,  as  all  little 
boys  are,  there  will  sometimes  come  over  him,  with  the  plea- 
sant remembrance  of  games  and  sweetmeats,  a  longing  to 
see  her  agairj. 

And,  indeed,  at  last,  when  she  is  twelve  perhaps,  he  will 
see  her  again,— but  more  sedate,  already  not  daring  to  play 
so  much,  in  all  the  charm  and  dignity  of  that  first  reserve 
the  maiden  wears,  as.  she  sjts  by  her  mother  in  the  family 
gatherings. 


156  The  Proof. 

Beatrice  Portinari  was  only  twelve,  and  wore  a  purple 
dress  (that  is,  a  violet  red  one)  when  Dante  saw  her  for  the 
first  time.  In  his  heart  she  ever  retained  that  age  and  that 
dress ;  and  even  unto  death  she  was  for  him  a  queenly  child 
clothed  on  with  light.  So  shall  my  collegian  carry  always 
with  him  the  image  of  his  little  Beatrice.  She  will  save  him 
from  many  evils,  especially  from  vulgarity.  Should  pleasure 
present  itself  to  the  boy  (as  is  only  too  common)  in  the  form 
of  some  degrading  indulgence,  it  would  disgust  him.  His 
heart  is  already  above  that. 

Let  two  or  three  years  pass  by,  and  then  let  him  see  her 
again,  gay  and  pretty.  In  the  development  of  his  rose,  the 
charming  vivacity  of  Shakespeare's  Perdita,  who  goes  and 
comes,  and  helps  her  mother,  is  shepherdess  and  princess  at 
once — behold  the  new  ideal  which  shall  guard  my  young 
friend.  If  ladies  of  questionable  delicacy  would  attract  his 
early  fancy  they  will  come  too  late.  Comparing  them  with 
her  he  will  say :  "  My  cousin  is  entirely  different." 

Petrarch,  in  a  most  beautiful  sonnet,  full  of  a  naive  confes- 
sion, tells  his  Laura  that  she  is  to  him  a  sacred  shrine  towards 
whom,  himself  a  pilgrim,  he  journeys  all  his  life.  And  yet  he 
confesses  that  in  the  chapels  that  dot  the  road  he  halts,  from 
time  to  time,  to  offer  short  prayers  to  Madonnas.  I  would 
have  no  chapels,  no  Madonnas  by  the  way.  At  every  step 
I  would  have  the  traveller  descry  his  Laura  afar  off,  and 
swerve  not  from  the  path. 

But  I  am  wrong ;  Laura  herself  is  willing  that  he  should 
have  other  mistresses ;  she  is  not  jealous, — she  consents  to 
share  his  heart.  She  knows,  indeed,  that  man  needs  diversity. 
She  knows  that  in  the  Jardin  des  Plantes  ever  waits  that  rav- 
ishing woman  with  the  beautiful  form — Nature,  the  great  Isis, 
who  intoxicates  young  hearts.  She  knows  that  in  the  schools 
of  the  Pantheon,  and  everywhere,  her  lover  will  pursue  the  vir- 
gin, Justice.  Besides,  she  takes  their  part,  and  interposes  for 
them.  She  prays  him,  through  his  mother,  to  forget  her,  if  he 
can,  for  her  sublime  rivals.  A  beautiful,  a  glorious  time,  when 


The  Proof.  157 

woman  protects  woman !  and  this  absent  young  girl  imparts 
courage  to  him,  in  the  midst  of  study  and  privation  !  Import- 
ant, most  important,  is  it  to  prolong  the  fruitful  labors  of  this 
season,  to  preserve  its  energy  just  when  it  is  perfect,  to  keep 
the  cup  full.  The  hard  life,  the  isolation  of  studies  which 
achieve  greatness,  is  very  differently  sustained  when  this 
Robinson  Crusoe  of  Paris  can  say,  in  a  double  alibi  of  all  base 
and  vulgar  life  :  "  I  have  here  my  mistress  and  my  mind." 

Marriage  is  confession :  I  have  said  that  before,  and  I  re- 
peat it,  because  it  is  very  true  and  very  suggestive. 

Oh  !  how  delightful,  what  a  joy  and  a  safe-guard,  to  have 
for  your  confessor  a  girl  of  eighteen,  to  whom  you  are  free 
to  speak,  but  who  herself  is  also  free  not  to  understand  en- 
tirely, and  not  to  influence  you  too  much.  Sometimes  her 
mother  is  anxious,  and  says,  "  Is  he  not  ill  ?  I  should  think 
so — he  is  sad.  Add  a  line  for  him." 

It  is  indeed  well  that  a  young  man  should  tell  a  maiden  of 
his  emotions,  the  heights  and  depths,  the  hopes  and  joys  and 
sorrows  of  his  mind.  "  Yesterday  I  learned — what  opens  up 
a  new  world  to  me.  It  seems  to  me  that,  in  this  direction, 
I  too  shall  succeed.  Aid  me,  encourage  me !  I  shall  yet 
be  a  man,  perhaps." 

Do  you  know  what  I  think  ?  That  this  same  young  gentle- 
man is  a  shrewd  and  adroit  seducer.  It  is  a  living  joy  to  a 
woman's  heart  to  mould  a  man, — to  recognise,  day  by  day, 
some  progress  in  him,  which  she  has  made.  In  the  quiet  life 
of  the  domestic  hearth,  with  a  mother  infinitely  loving,  with 
an  old,  indulgent  father,  it  is  a  delightful  novelty  to  her,  gra- 
dually to  join  her  life  to  the  ardent  life  of  a  young  adventur- 
ous man,  who  takes  her  in  his  bark. 

She  is  much  embarrassed  ;  she  is  afraid ;  she  flings  herself, 
in  tears,  on  her  mother's  bosom.  Some  delightful  day  she 
stops  astonished,  as  she  is  writing  thus  to  him  :  "  It  is  always 
a  pleasure  to  converse,  to  exchange  ideas ;  and  all  that  proves 
your  mind  clearly  enough. — But  your  heart  ?" 


How  she  gives  her  Heart  away. 
V. 

HOW    SHE    GIVES    HER    HEART    AWAr. 

"How  many  improbabilities  are  there  in  the  preceding 
pages  ?  A  student  in  love  !  A  student  taking  his  mistress 
for  a  confessor !  A  student  shutting  himself  up  to  prepare 
for  his  examinations !  A  student  studying !  O  that  is  too 
absurd !  The  author  is  evidently  ignorant  of  what  schools 
are.  He  forgets  how  long  it  takes  to  attain  a  profession,  to 
set  up  an  office,  to  get  practice,  and  all  that." 

You  enlighten  me.  I  forget  that  all  young  Frenchmen 
must  be  notaries,  attorneys,  functionaries,  note-takers,  and 
manuscript-mongers — must  plunge  indiscriminately  and  fright- 
fully encumbered  into  two  or  three  professions,  in  which  their 
long  noviciate  will  compel  them  to  marry  late — when  most  of 
them,  indeed,  are  already  worn  out. 

Who  does  this?  Those  prudent  mothers  especially,  who 
want  a  son-in-law  in  good  position.  To  them  "  functionary" 
is  synonymous  with  stability,  in  this  land  of  the  unstable  !  A 
notary  !  how  pleasantly  the  word  sounds  to  them.  And  yet, 
in  most  cases,  the  man  plunges  into  debt  to  get  his  office. 

So  the  blindness  of  this  spirit  of  reaction,  the  ignorance  and 
the  fear  of  woman,  make  of  the  most  adventurous  people  in 
the  world  the  most  foolishly  timid,  the  most  inert, — a  mol- 
lusk  on  his  rock. 

The  Englishman,  the  American,  the  Russian  have  the  whole 
world  for  the  theatre  of  their  activities.  The  English-woman 
deems  it  perfectly  natural  to  marry  a  Calcutta  or  Canton 
merchant.  She  follows  her  husband,  an  officer,  to  the  farthest 
isles  of  Oceanica.  The  Dutch  woman  will  accept  with  equal 
cheerfulness  a  husband  from  Java  or  Surinam.  The  Polish 
woman,  to  comfort  an  exile,  does  not  shrink  from  living  in 
Siberia,  and  the  perseverance  of  such  devotion  has  created 
beyond  Tobolsk  an  admirable  Poland,  with  a  better  dialect 


How  she  gives  her  Heart  away.  159 

than  that  of  Warsaw.  But  let  us  even  take  Germany,  which 
thinks  so  much  of  home ;  and  you  see  her  spreading  far  and 
wide,  over  the  two  Americas.  The  closest  family  travels  most, 
sure  of  carrying  its  happiness  with  it.  Love  everywhere 
creates  its  own  country,  extends  and  populates  it.  With  Love 
man  has  wings.  Only  you  of  all  Europe  do  not  see  that,  if 
you  are  not  in  soldier's  clothes,  you  are  a  sedentary  people,  a 
prudent  people,  you  drag  on  where  you  were  born.  But  a 
man  is  soon  ruined  on  'Change  in  your  lottery  life,  in  your 
money  panics,  and  the  oyster  itself  is  shipwrecked.  So  much 
for  your  stability,  your  sure  position,  for  which  one  must  put 
off  marrying  till  a  mature  age,  till  the  age  when  most,  who 
have  got  to  the  end  of  it,  have  nothing  to  do  but  make  love. 

Gaul  and  old  France  were  the  homes  of  hope.  They  be- 
lieved in  a  future,  and  they  made  that  future.  They  loved 
and  married  young;  at  the  age  when  we,  quite  worn  out,  finish 
up,  and  take  a  wife,  they  had  had  for  a  long  time  home,  fa- 
mily, and  posterity.  To  be  sure,  all  the  children  did  not  live  ; 
yet  the  people,  gay,  loving,  prolific,  everywhere  left  traces 
of  themselves.  Our  ancient  Gauls  built  up,  I  know  not  how 
many  nations  in  Europe  and  Asia.  Our  mixed  races  of  the 
twelfth  century  founded  numerous  colonies.  Our  Frenchmen 
of  the  sixteenth  and  seventeenth  centuries,  by  their  energy, 
their  facile  sociality,  subdued  the  new  world  and  Frenchified 
the  savages.  Who  put  a  stop  to  this  ?  Just  Louis  XIV., 
who,  attacking  Holland,  gave  it  to  England,  henceforward 
mistress  of  the  sea.  But  for  him  we  might  have  had  the  two 
Indias.  And  why  ?  Because  we  were  loved,  and  had  children 
everywhere.  And  the  English  have  none  any  where — except 
in  one  place,  the  United  States,  whither  the  whole  congrega- 
tion of  Puritans  betook  themselves  in  a  body. 

Think  of  that,  young  man;  and  in  the  streets  of  Paris, 
where  you  have  so  many  resources,  of  ideas  and  of  arts,  and  a 
thousand  ways  of  making  yourself  a  man,  look  around  you 
a  little,  and  consider  where  you  are.  Embrace  with  a  bold 
searching  scope,  all  science,  and  the  whole  globe — universal 


>6o  How  She  gives  her  Heart  away. 

humanity.  Love,  and  love,  too,  a  loving  and  devoted  woman, 
who  will  follow  you  with  noble  courage  into  the  uncertain- 
ties of  fate,  and  all  the  inventive  boldness  of  your  own  brave 
thoughts. 

"  But,  sir,"  says  my  young  friend,  "  would  you  know  why 
we  are  so  prudent,  with  a  woman's  prudence.  It  is  because 
women,  mothers,  impose  such  conditions  upon  us.  Those  fine 
laws,  which  make  them  equal  with  man,  make  them  rich  and 
influential,  even  more  influential  than  fathers :  for  the  father 
can  have  only  a  hypothetical  fortune,  involved  in  business, 
while  that  of  his  wife  is  often  secured  by  contract,  and  remains 
apart.  That  is  why  she  rules,  and  does  as  she  chooses.  She 
takes  her  boys  from  school  to  put  them,  one  knows  not  where. 
She  gives  her  daughter  to  whoever  pleases  her.  I,  for  in- 
stance— who  am  I  ?  What  shall  I  do  ?  or  what  shall  I  be  ?  I 
do  not  know  yet.  That  depends  on  a  woman.  I  am  regarded 
with  favor,  at  a  distance ;  but  if  with  the  least  boldness  I  ap- 
proach nearer,  this  mother  will  be  alarmed,  will  draw  back, 
and  reserve  her  daughter  for  a  man  of  position  and  rank." 

The  young  gentleman  is  right.  A  great  responsibility  at 
this  moment  rests  on  the  mother.  She  has  immense  power, 
to  make  and  to  unmake.  One  word  from  her  can  work  a 
marvellous  transformation ;  our  hero  may  take  his  rank,  may 
become  a  ban  sujet.  Moreover  if  this  word  confirms  his 
courage,  his  young  loving  heart,  through  one  bond  alone,  may 
become  great.  . 

You  are  a  woman,  and  still  young,  madam ;  but  you  are 
already  in  that  second  youth  when  prudence  is  developed, 
when  things  have  lost  their  glow,  when  one  grows  suspicious 
of  everything  alive.  Please  do  not  impose  so  much  wisdom 
on  them  already.  Do  not  require  this  young  man  to  begin 
with  old  age.  You  loved  him,  you  took  pleasure  in  his  en- 
thusiastic letters.  Pray,  take  him  as  he  is,  young  and  glow- 
ing. Your  daughter  will  lose  nothing  by  it.  Act  a  little 
with  her;  consult  her.  I  warrant  her  less  timid  than  you. 
And  in  truth  she  is  right  to  be  bold.  Such  spirits,  in  their  first 


How  She  gives  her  Heart  away.  161 

flight,  may  seem  eccentric  by  their  own  excess ;  but  there 
must  be  too  much  at  first,  in  order  that  there  may  be  enough 
at  last.  Soon  balanced,  they  will  attain  their  true  power, 
and  properly  directed,  will  supply  the  man  with  his  ideal  of  a 
wise  energy. 

Here  are  our  young  people,  brought  together ;  and  I  should 
like  to  pause  at  this  delightful  point  of  perplexity  and  restless- 
ness. Besides,  so  little  is  known  about  it.  "We  are  always  too 
far  above  it.  We  deal  only  with  the  surface,  the  pretty 
quarrels,  the  sweet  seeming-contentions  of  love.  It  is  some- 
what allied  to  war,  and,  in  most  cases,  we  approach  it  trembling. 
Thus  it  is  with  these.  The  strong  charm  of  power  bewilders 
the  maiden  somewhat ;  and,  on  the  other  hand,  the  young 
man,  however  truly  he  may  love,  has  an  extreme  fear  of 
ridicule. 

He  is  wrong.  Woman,  the  true  woman,  is  too  tender  to  be 
sarcastic.  Our  heroine  especially,  reared  as  we  have  seen,  is 
by  no  means  the  saucy,  jesting  Rosalind  of  Shakspeare — nor 
the  laughing,  giddy,  empty-headed  girl  we  see  too  often  here. 
Her  playful  badinage  is  delicate ; — a  pretty  kind  of  strife  that 
would  not  even  be  felt  by  our  young  men-of-the-world.  But 
he,  less  blase,  is  disturbed,  and  rebels  at  the  least  thing.  He 
can  bear  nothing  from  her — is  vexed,  and  answers  crossly. 
He  suffers;  and,  at  the  same  instant,  she  suffers  too.  To  be 
so  sensitive  towards  each  other, — is  not  that  love  ? 

Love !  what  is  it,  and  whence  comes  it  ?  How  much  has 
been  written  about  it,  and  how  idly ! 

Neither  statement,  nor  analysis,  nor  comparison  avails. 
Love  is  love,  a  thing  like  nothing  else. 

A  pretty  metaphor  is  that  of  de  Stendhal,  who  likens  it  to 
a  branch  steeped  in  the  salt-springs  of  Saltzburg.  Two  months 
afterwards  it  is  taken  out,  changed,  adorned  with  a  rich 
and  fantastic  crystallization — girandoles,  diamonds,  flowers 
of  hoar-frost.  Such  is  love,  steeped  in  the  deep  springs  of 
the  imagination;  and  the  comparison  exactly  applies  to  his 
pretty,  ironical,  sensual  book  on  Love. 


162          How  She  gives  her  Heart  away. 

To  him  the  subject  is  very  dry — a  poor  branch  of  wood,  a 
stick — such  the  reality ;  and  all  the  rest  is  but  the  dream,  the 
embroidery,  the  idle  poetry  that  we  weave  upon  it  at  pleasure. 
A  capital  theory  that,  to  render  utterly  sterile  the  most  fruitful 
of  all  subjects !  A  trite  theory  too,  in  spite  of  the  piquancy  of 
its  form.  'Tis  the  same  old  Thesis,  "  Love  is  but  a  fleeting 
show." 

Love !  I  have  found  nothing  more  real  in  this  world — as 
real  as  second-sight.  It  alone  bestows  the  power  of  seeing  a 
hundred  new  truths  otherwise  invisible. 

As  real  as  creation ;  the  true  things  that  it  sees,  itself 
makes  true.  With  woman,  for  instance,  it  is  so  pleasant  to  be 
loved,  that,  delighted  and  transfigured,  she  becomes  infinitely 
beautiful :  beautiful,  not  only  as  she  looks,  but  as  she  is. 

Real  like  creation,  double  and  reflected,  so  that  the  created 
creates  in  its  turn.  This  radiance  of  beauty  which  our  love 
imparts  to  woman  reacts  upon  and  re-radiates  from  us,  by 
wholly  new  powers  of  aspiration,  of  genius  and  invention. 
What  name  shall  we  give  it  ?  No  matter  what !  It  is 
Master,  the  power  and  the  creator.  If  it  abide  with  us,  we 
are  strong.  Without  it,  we  could  achieve  nothing  great  in 
this  world. 

Surprise  magnifies  its  power.  Happy,  most  happy  the 
young  man  if  chance  should  develope  some  unforeseen  beauty 
in  him  !  By  just  that  much  has  he  advanced.  For  example : 
it  is  discovered  that  in  Paris  our  hero  spent  too  much.  He 
suffers  himself  to  be  censured ;  but  presently  they  find  out 
that,  by  reducing  his  expenses  to  the  minimum  of  his  absolute 
wants,  he  supported  a  poor  family  on  his  salary.  His  lady-love 
is  affected ;  she  has  but  little  to  say  that  day,  and  dares  not 
look  at  him. 

From  crime  to  crime  they  detect  the  culprit,  till  they  dis- 
cover that  while  they  were  most  earnestly  urging  him  to  secure 
a  position  in  his  career,  by  the  first  successes  of  the  schools, 
which  by  and  by  should  lead  to  the  great  success  of  life, 
he  has  acted  like  the  great  painter  Prud'hon,  and  our  illus- 


How  She  gives  her  Heart  away.          163 

trious  physiologist,  Serres ;  both  of  whom,  with  no  fortune 
but  their  talent  in  intellectual  competition,  abandoned  the  prize 
themselves,  and  worked  for  a  rival.  Thus  Prud'hon  sent  to 
Rome  a  rival  who,  without  his  aid,  would  have  been  unable  to 
continue  his  studies.  Serres,  in  a  medical  college,  finding 
among  his  comrades  a  poor  English  surgeon,  who  was  dying 
of  hunger,  conceived  the  idea  of  competing  for  him,  succeeded 
against  himself,  and  so  won  for  his  friend  a  place  as  pupil  at 
the  Hotel  Dieu.  An  act  of  courage  in  the  cause  of  humanity 
is  another  pretty  bouquet  to  offer  her  he  loves.  One  has  not 
always  such  prizes;  but  they  await  those  who  are  worthy. 
A  man  fallen  into  the  river,  a  fire,  a  shipwreck,  a  hundred 
chances  furnish  the  occasion. 

Such  acts  induce  love ;  for  \vomen  are  weak,  and  very  suscep- 
tible to  them.  I  confide  this  receipt  to  all  who  are  not  loved : 
Be  beautiful — that  is  the  only  way.  From  the  day  when  that 
lightning  flashes  across  her,  she  recognises  her  master,  and 
feels  herself  powerless.  Let  him  not  take  advantage  of  that. 

How  could  he  ?  I  know  not,  for  there  have  been  no  nuptials 
yet — but  there  is  marriage.  The  father  and  mother,  almost  in 
love  with  him,  holding  him  in  high  esteem,  respect  their  tete- 
a-tetes.  They  have  confidence — and  they  are  right.  What 
wise  conversations,  though  so  tender,  so  touching !  She  talks, 
untiring,  of  their  house,  and  its  arrangements — of  the  cares  of 
their  future  home  ;  he,  of  love  and  their  future  children.  She 
listens,  her  eyes  downcast,  but  resigned  and  docile.  She  takes 
care  not  to  interrupt  him — does  not  object  to  a  word.  But  must 
it  be  told  ?  she  is  so  gentle,  she  appears  so  submissive,  that  he  is 
tempted,  tempted  to  try  his  power.  Then  the  poor  child  sud- 
denly grows  pale  ;  she  does  not  struggle,  but  throbs,  arid  can 
do  no  more ;  her  breath  fails  her.  How  can  he  ?  She  totters, 
leans  on  him,  and  at  last  sits  down,  overcome  with  her 
emotions.  "  Spare  me,  I  beseech  you;  it  is  thy  wife,  who  for  a 
few  days  implores  thy  forbearance."  And  then  she  puts  both 
her  hands  in  his.  "  After  what  thou  hast  done,  how  could  I 
resist  thee  ?  But  thou  wilt  make  me  miserable.  You  see  they 


164  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother. 

repose  confidence  in  thee — in  thee  alone.  They  have  seen  me 
so  moved,  that  they  well  know  how  weak  I  am.  Love  me 
for  myself,  my  husband ;  protect  me,  defend  me,  for  I  can 
no  longer  protect  myself." 


IV. 


THOU  SHALT  LEAVE  THY  FATHER  AND  THY  MOTHER. 

OUR  Sakontala's  farewell  to  her  birth-place,  to  her  sisters, 
her  flowers,  her  favorite  birds,  and  her  pet  animals,  is  no  idle 
comedy ;  it  is  human  nature.  She  has  loved  them,  and  she 
weeps  for  them ;  she  has  counted  the  days,  and  now  that  the 
day  approaches,  it  comes  too  soon.  She  now  feels  how  much 
it  all  was  to  her,  how  pleasant  and  soft  this  nest  that  she  must 
leave — the  happy  family  table,  the  circle  of  young  brothers 
and  sisters  who  adored  her,  the  weakness  of  her  father,  stern 
to  all  others,  but  gentle  to  her.  One  person,  indeed,  is  alone 
in  her  sorrow,  the  real  victim  of  this  sacrifice,  her  poor 
mother,  who  controls  herself  so  well,  and  scarcely  ever  weeps. 
Oh  !  it  is  too  much  for  the  young  girl ! 

No  dream  of  happiness,  no  mirage  of  fancy,  can  compen- 
sate for  this.  The  night  before  the  parting,  at  the  table,  with 
her  eyes  on  her  plate,  she  hardly  dares  to  look  up,  lest  they 
should  swim,  with  tears.  The  rest  go  down  to  the  garden,  but 
not  she  ;  on  some  pretext  she  remains,  to  roam  from  chamber 
to  chamber  through  the  home  of  her  youth,  which  she  is 
about  to  leave  for  ever.  She  bids  adieu  to  each  article  of  fur- 
niture, every  beloved  thing :  her  piano,  her  books,  her  father's 
chair  ;  but  to  her  mother's  bed  most  of  all.  There  she  bursts 
into  tears. 

And  why  ?  does  she  not  love  ?  Never  doubt  it.  Yes,  she 
truly  loves.  Strange,  but  natural,  that  at  the  moment  of  follow- 


Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother.  165 

ing  her  husband  she  misses  her  lover.  The  room  in  which  she 
dreamed  of  him,  the  table  on  which  she  wrote  to  him,  have 
their  share  of  her  regrets.  The  stormy  alternations  of  her 
love  for  so  many  years,  come  back  to  her  memory  now.  From 
her  new  happiness,  she  throws  a  backward  glance  over  that 
world  of  sighs,  and  dreams,  and  idle  fears,  in  which  passion 
takes  delight ;  she  mourns  for  it  all,  even  to  the  sweet  bitter- 
ness she  often  found  in  tears. 

Nothing  moves  her  more  than  the  sight  of  the  friends  of 
her  childhood — the  dumb  animals  out  of  doors,  who  have  been 
told  nothing — the  dog,  the  cat  of  the  house,  who  know  all 
about  it  all.  The  dog  follow?  her  with  wistful  eyes  ;  and  the 
cat,  dull  and  motionless,  refusing  to  eat,  lies  always  on  her 
bed — the  little  girl's  bed,  that  will  be  empty  to-morrow. 

They  seem  to  say  to  her,  "  You  go,  but  we  remain.  You 
leave  us  for  a  stranger.  You  quit  the  home  of  gentleness  and 
love,  where  you  had  everything  your  own  way.  Whatever 
you  did  was  right,  whatever  you  said  was  beautiful.  Your 
mother,  father,  everybody,  hung  on  your  lips,  eager  to  receive 
all  that  escaped  them.  Your  sisters  quoted  your  opinions  as 
supreme  reason,  and  decided  by  your  word,  ;  She  has  said  it.' 
Your  brothers  were  your  knights,  silently  admiring  you,  ima- 
gining nothing  higher  than  you,  loving  in  other  ladies  only 
what  resembled  you. 

"  Mistress,  protectress,  beloved  nurse,  who  so  often  hast  fed 
us  from  thy  hand !  whither  art  thou  going,  and  what  will  be- 
come of  thee  ?  Thou  art  now  to  have  a  master,  and  thou  must 
swear  obedience.  Thou  departest  to  dwell  with  a  stranger — 
with  one  who  loves  thee,  true — but  a  proud  young  man,  and 
stern.  How  much  will  his  active  energy,  bent  on  other  mat- 
ters, leave  him  for  his  wife  and  home  ?  From  his  daily  work — 
he  will  come  home  at  night,  often  sad,  often  severe.  His  dis- 
appointments, his  failures,  will  return  to  thee  in  the  form  of 
unjust  caprices. 

"  This  house  of  love  whither  thou  goest,  how  often  will  it  be 
more  dreary  to  thee  than  thy  dear  paternal  home !  All  was 


166  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother. 

so  serene  here !  when  thou  didst  laugh,  all  laughed.  Thy  idle 
merriment,  thy  clear  young  voice,  thy  goodness  that  made  us 
all  happy,  created  here  a  paradise,  a  house  of  blessedness. 
All  was  love  and  indulgence,  and  all  were  emboldened  by 
thee.  For  thy  father  and  mother  had  not  the  heart  to  scold 
the  children  or  us.  The  dog  well  knew  that  at  certain  times 
everything  was  permitted;  and  the  cat  as  well.  At  such 
moments  when  the  family  were  at  dessert,  we  stole  in  to  par- 
take of  the  feast ;  and  thy  birds  came,  clapping  their  wings, 
to  receive  a  kiss  from  thy  lips." 

Woman  is  born  to  suffer.  Every  great  step  of  life  is  to  her 
a  wound.  She  grows  up  for  marriage ;  that  is  her  legitimate 
dream.  But  her  "  vita  nuova  "  is  a  rending  away  of  the  past. 
To  grant  to  love  its  boundless  pleasure,  she  must  suffer  in  her 
flesh.  How  much  more  so,  when  soon  the  other  husband,  the 
other  lover,  the  child  from  the  depths  of  her  being,  shall  tear 
her  heart !  Nor  is  that  all.  Our  fathers  had  a  sombre  pro- 
verb ;  "  A  mother's  sorrow  endures  long."  Here  "  mother  " 
stood  for  "  matrix,"  and  the  meaning  of  the  proverb  was  that, 
in  addition  to  the  physical  pangs  of  maternity,  weariness  and 
anxiety,  sorrow  and  pain  follow  her,  and  shall  follow  her,  all 
her  days. 

On  what  day,  at  what  moment,  shall  the  victim  be  produced  ? 
What  matter  ?  says  the  legislator.  What  matter  ?  echoes  the 
priest. 

The  astrologer  of  the  middle  ages  said,  "  It  matters  much." 
And  he  was  right.  But  how  is  the  day  to  be  chosen  ?  He 
set  up  his  glass,  and  looked  at  the  sky,  saw  nothing,  and 
decided. 

What  we  must  look  at,  is  woman  herself,  the  dear  creature 
who  gives  up  all,  who  suffers  and  devotes  herself.  We  must 
love  her,  and  wish  her  to  suffer  less  by  her  sacrifice.  If  any 
day,  any  week,  be  propitious  and  safe,  let  us  choose  that. 

Let  me  pause  here,  and  ask  how  it  happens  that  the  nume- 
rous authors  who  have  treated  of  love  and  marriage,  have 
never  once  touched  on  these  questions.  And  yet  they  were 


Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother.  167 

the  very  foundation  of  their  subject — at  least,  the  point  of 
necessary  departure,  without  which  they  could  speak  and 
reason  but  at  random. 

Happily,  nature  does  not  rely  on  us  for  the  great  func- 
tions of  life  which  preserve  it.  These  are  accomplished 
instinctively,  and,  as  it  were,  under  the  dominion  of  sleep. 
Our  physiological  chemistry  is  marvellously  complicated,  and 
goes  on  its  way,  taking  no  counsel.  So  it  has  been  with  the 
perpetuity  of  the  human  race,  operating  by  love  and  mar- 
riage, through  the  constitution  of  the  family.  All  this  has 
in  nowise  changed,  and  man,  in  these  great  essentials,  has 
remained  in  the  track  of  reason. 

Unreasonableness  belongs  to  exalted  geniuses,  the  men  of 
thought  and  authority,  the  guides  of  the  human  race.  For 
example,  to  the  political  economists,  those  profound  politi- 
cians, who  have  thought  they  could  regulate  love,  and  retard 
or  hasten  the  operations  of  fecundity;  not  one  of  them 
knows  what  fecundation  is ;  they  do  not  know  that  they  are 
maintaining  the  Malthusian  theory,  wherein  they  are  always 
groping.  And,  for  example,  the  theologians,  who  have  so 
lucidly  explained  the  Conception  without  knowing  what  con- 
ception is.  And,  for  example,  the  casuists,  who  have  so 
sagaciously  directed  and  purified  conjugal  life,  without  know- 
ing what  marriage  is.  And,  let  us  add,  our  own  writers,  who, 
in  so  many  eloquent  books,  have  discussed  the  right  and  the 
truth,  accused  man  or  woman,  and  weighed  the  question  of 
the  superiority  of  one  sex  over  the  other.  Our  great  novelist, 
a  woman  of  wonderful  power — our  great  orator,  a  man  of 
potent  and  terrible  arm,  who  striking  the  pro  and  con.,  brings 
forth  flash  on  flash,  the  world  looking  on — is  it  not  astonish- 
ing that  neither  of  these  two  has  reached  the  bottom  of  the 
matter,  the  lowest  wells  from  \vhich  indeed  springs  all  the 
rest  ?  Lowest  ?  Nothing  is  lowest.  Let  us  abandon  these 
old  ideas  of  a  ladder  and  a  top  and  a  bottom.  "  God  is  a 
sphere,"  said  a  philosopher.  Heaven  is  under  our  feet,  as 
well  as  over  our  heads.  Formerly  we  humbled  the  stomach 


168  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother. 

to  exalt  the  brain.  We  have  found  (in  1848)  that  the  brain 
digests  ;  at  least,  without  it  no  sugar  is  made,  which  alone 
permits  digestion. 

To  return  :  until  1830,  when  the  ovum  was  demonstrated,  the 
crisis  of  love,  theory  was  but  folly  ;  before  1840,  when  the  law 
was  laid  down  and  the  fruitful  seasons  indicated,  all  practice 
was  blind.  The  persevering  observations  of  great  anatomists, 
the  authority  of  the  Academy  of  Sciences — a  perfect  pontiff 
in  these  matters — and  at  last  the  sovereign  dictum  of  the 
College  of  France,  from  1840  to  1850,  gave  to  Europe  those 
discoveries,  henceforth  to  be  accepted  as  articles  of  human 
faith. 

How  apropos  does  science  come  in  ?  Medicine,  before 
the  scourge  of  the  century  (the  universality  of  diseases  of 
the  matrix),  stammered,  and  turned  aside,  after  having  vain 
recourse  to  the  brutalities  of  surgery.  Then  Ovology  conies 
to  its  aid.  It  is  the  careful  study  of  the  functions  which  must 
open  the  way  to  a  knowledge  of  their  changes.  And  who 
knows  ?  The  first,  gently  nursed  by  love,  may  perhaps  antici- 
pate the  second. 

Forgive,  my  young  friend,  these  serious  words,  at  an  hour 
when,  of  course,  your  heart  is  occupied  with  very  different 
thoughts ;  but  love  is  anxious.  For  thy  sake,  for  hers,  I 
would  draw  thee  back  from  thy  poetic  heaven  to  the  real. 
But  the  real  is  herself,  so  it  is  heaven  still.  The  question  is 
of  her,  and  of  your  future.  When  the  health,  the  life  of  your 
darling  is  at  stake,  you  will  not  accuse  us  of  excess  of 
wisdom,  and  tender  precautions. 

Is  it  not  a  spectacle  to  make  us  reflect,  to  see  around  us 
young  and  charming  women,  smitten  by  love  itself,  con- 
demned to  refusals,  to  involuntary  evasions,  or  (hateful  con- 
trast) to  tearful  concessions  ? 

A  desolate  condition  indeed,  which  overclouds  love,  and 
will  soon  extinguish  it — which  makes  generation  a  fearful 
thing.  One  shrinks  appalled  when,  to  the  trials  of  maternity, 
he  knows  that  increased  pains  are  added.  To  the  most  ten 


Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother.   169 

der  outgushings  of  hearts,  which  make  them  one,  there  comes 
a  time  full  of  grief  and  terror  of  the  future,  and  death 
between  kisses. 

Formerly  this  scourge  was  less  noticeable.  In  the  first 
place,  because  they  died  sooner,  and  so  did  not  take  their  full 
measure  of  suffering ;  but  also  from  another  cause :  woman, 
then  not  at  all  refined,  living  a  less  intellectual  life,  had 
stronger  physical  reactions  against  both  pain  and  bad  treat- 
ment. I  here  allude  especially  to  what  is  mildly  called 
amorous  passion,  but  which  might  be  better  termed  the  de- 
mands of  selfish  pleasure,  exacting  too  much,  desiring 
wrongly,  consulting  neither  the  period  nor  the  suffering. 
She,  weak  and  delicate,  feels  all  this,  and  feels  it  deeply.  It 
is  no  jest ;  but  demands  our  serious  attention,  and  the  love  of 
every  moment. 

What  I  would  say  to  the  mother,  I  would  insist  upon  to 
the  lover. 

In  truth,  more  fragile  than  a  child,  woman  absolutely  re- 
quires that  we  love  her  for  herself  alone,  that  we  guard  her 
carefully,  that  we  be  every  moment  sensible  that  in  urging 
her  too  far  we  are  sure  of  nothing.  Our  angel,  though  smil- 
ing, and  blooming  with  life,  often  touches  the  earth  with  but 
the  tip  of  one  wing ;  the  other  would  already  waft  her  else- 
where. 

Ask  not  of  the  ignorance  of  the  past,  what  shall  be  done  in 
this  great  matter;  it  knows  not,  and  cannot  answer.  Ask 
science  alone  to  advise,  and  love  alone  to  execute. 

Science  replies  first,  very  simply :  That  we  should  love  in 
her  hour  of  love,  without  precipitation,  letting  things  take 
their  course,  to  succeed  each  other  in  their  natural  order — 
but  one  thing  at  a  time,  avoiding  congestions  and  all  perma- 
nent irritations.  Therefore,  we  know  the  true  moment,  lawful 
and  sacred,  in  which  marriage  should  take  place.  In  a  treatise 
approved  by  the  Academy  of  Sciences,  and  authorized  by  its 
high  approval,  it  is  stated  that  one  ought  only  to  marry  a 

8 


170  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother. 

young  girl  ten  days  after  the  process  of  ovulation,  that  is 
to  say — in  the  calm,  serene,  and  sterile  week  she  has  between 
the  two  periods.  (Raciborski,  1844,  p.  133.) 

This  excellent  observation,  as  humane  as  it  is  reasonable,  is 
no  quack  theory,  but  profoundly  scientific,  and  derived  from 
established  facts,  and  the  known  laws  of  Ovology.  The 
deduction  is  natural,  and  so  it  will  remain  invariable,  an  impera- 
tive aud  necessary  law  of  marriage.  In  fact,  nothing  could 
be  wiser.  The  sterile  period  should  be  chosen,  says  Raci- 
borski, because  she  would  suffer  too  much  if  she  were  en- 
ceinte in  the  first  months.  How  cruel  would  it  be  to  inflict 
upon  her  at  the  same  time  three  pains — her  periodical  indis- 
position, the  initiation  of  marriage,  and  the  disturbances  of  a 
first  pregnancy. 

"But  her  mother  would  attend  to  that,''  says  some  one. 
Not  she.  She  will  allow  the  favorable  period  to  pass,  and 
marry  her  daughter  three  or  four  days  later — just  when  the 
woman  is  most  susceptible ;  and  she  becomes  pregnant  imme- 
diately. The  ten  full  days  allowed  will  be  a  blessing,  for 
thus  science  interposes  between  impatient  passion  and  the 
wife,  shielding  her  as  in  a  mother's  arms,  and  better  than  she 
could.  So  every  great  discovery,  every  great  truth,  which 
at  first  is  but  a  light,  and  speaks  only  to  the  reason,  is  not 
slow  in  reaching  those  practical  results  which  touch  the  heart. 

Sufficient  unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof;  one  labor  at  a 
time.  Spare  the  bride,  I  pray  you,  at  such  a  time,  those  noisy 
repasts  of  provincial  weddings  with  which  fools  would  stuff 
her.  If  she  does  not  eat,  they  will  say,  "  Don't  you  see  ?  she 
is  sad ;  they  have  to  force  her.  She  does  not  love  her  hus- 
band— that's  plain." 

I  perceive  that  the  good  sense  of  our  fathers  desired,  on 
the  contrary,  that  she  should  come  to  this  trial  of  separation 
and  tears,  of  moral  and  physical  suffering,  only  when  prepared 
by  her  mother,  well  refreshed,  light  and  gay,  and  so  much 
the  less  vulnerable. 


Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother.  171 

The  rites  and  symbols  of  marriage  are  even  now  very  im- 
perfect. People  busy  themselves  excessively  in  teaching  the 
weak  that  she  is  weak,  so  that  she  may  feel  dependent.  It 
would  be  much  more  instructive,  more  original,  more  humane, 
to  teach  the  strong  that  here  he  must  not  show  himself  strong, 
to  inspire  him  at  such  a  moment  with  delicate  attentions  and 
compassion.  Love  will  provide  f  r  that,  they  say.  But  it  is 
quite  the  contrary.  Love,  be  it  confessed,  makes  strange 
transformations.  At  times,  in  man,  a  wild  beast  roars  with 
impatience — the  ferocity  of  desire. 

Physicians  begin  to  suspect  that  precipitation  and  reckless 
insisting  (shall  we  call  it  cruel  pride?),  are  often  prime  causes 
of  enduring  irritations,  and  incurable  congestions.  Incurable, 
of  course  !  How  can  there  be  a  cure  when  every  day  the 
malady  is  aggravated  ? 

Recall,  at  the  decisive  moment,  that  pious,  that  religious 
maxim,  that  sovereign  exorcism  which  can  put  your  devil  to 
flight  quicker  than  any  formula — the  legal  definition,  "  Mar- 
riage is  consent." 

It  will  not  be  worth  while  to  remember  it  at  noon,  if  you 
cannot  think  of  it  at  night,  in  the  moment  of  agitation,  when 
your  trouble  is  greatest.  Then,  then  is  the  time  to  remember, 
"  Marriage  is  consent." 

I  should  indeed  rejoice  if  thou  hadst  a  mind  to  think  of  this 
in  the  evening — if,  laying  aside  pride  and  all  its  follies,  con- 
sulting only  thy  love  and  thy  heart,  thinking  only  of  thy  poor 
little  one,  thou  wouldst  talk  with  her  mother,  who,  without 
thee,  dares  not  have  a  wish.  We  must  soften,  must  blunt 
these  thorns,  if  not  remove  them.  The  merciful  rite  of  India 
speaks  in  this  matter  like  our  own  physicians. 

The  daughter  of  France  is  often  sarcastic,  laughing  at  our 
expense,  but  at  the  same  time  the  most  nervous  in  tho  world, 
and  most  readily  captivated  by  imagination.  She  ought  not 
to  be  afraid  of  him  whose  absolute  mistress  she  is  to  be ;  and 
yet  she  trembles  to  such  a  degree,  that  were  there  no  other 


172  Thou  shalt  leave  thy  Father  and  Mother. 

difficulty,  there  would  still  be  a  grave  one  in  her  depression 
of  spirits.  Man,  so  selfish,  thinking  only  of  himself,  complaina 
much  of  some  sorcery  which  he  says  paralyses  everything. 
But  the  more  veritable  terrors  of  woman  are  not  counted. 
Her  cheerfulness  should  be  restored,  that  is  the  great  point. 
He  must  be  patient,  magnanimous,  and  desire  not  as  against 
himself,  but  for  the  sake  o:'*  both,  that  she,  too,  may  be  happy ; 
he  must  consult  her,  obey  ner,  and  make  this  his  triumph — 
that  her  pain  do  not  displf  ise  her. 

Happy  he  who  can  prepare  his  own  happiness !  Who  would 
have  it  free,  and  desired,  "vho  trusts  in  tenderness  and  good- 
nature. A  sincere  adorer,  with  true  devotion  he  honors  the 
approaches  of  the  temple,  and  guards  its  portal  with  a  tender 
and  patient  persistence.  Of  themselves  those  holy  doors  will 
move  for  him.  The  living  fire  of  the  god,  that  seems  so  far 
oif,  is  at  the  very  threshold. 

In  a  higher,  a  more  advanced  state,  to  which  hereafter  we 
shall  come,  it  will  be  truly  understood  that  this  pleasant  invi- 
tation is  precious,  especially  by  the  new  ways  it  opens  to  the 
heart ;  that  it  is  but  one  step  in  the  progression  that  love 
makes  in  the  gradual  conquest  of  the  beloved,  in  every  serious 
union,  and  such  progressions  must  have  long  preceded  the  fes- 
tival which  is  love's  proclamation. 

The  soul-marriage  must  have  existed  long  before  the  legal 
nuptials,  if  it  is  to  continue  afterwards,  and  strengthen  more 
and  more. 

Let  us  efface  from  our  language  that  immoral  and  fatal 
phrase ;  the  Consummation  of  Marriage.  A  progressive 
state,  it  finds  its  consummation  only  in  the  consummation  of 
life. 

The  wedding  is  but  a  publishing  of  this  long  initiation. 
Useful,  indispensable,  as  a  guarantee,  it  nevertheless  has  often, 
like  the  noisy,  brilliant  festival,  a  very  bad  effect  upon  the  mar- 
riage. The  uproar  seems  to  signify  that  a  great  day  is  over, 
and  love  has  given  up  its  all ;  and  the  succeeding  days  are  dull 


The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts.     173 

and  cold.     It  is  wrong  to  date  by  a  festival  what  should  be 
eternal. 

No,  even  at  that  divine  moment,  know  that  it  is  indeed  di- 
vine only  because  it  consummates  nothing,  ends  nothing ;  it  is 
divine,  because  it  begins.  Thine  idol  has  given  thee  all  she 
could,  has  given  herself  in  accepting  thy  love,  has  given  her- 
self in  saying,  "  I  am  thine,"  has  given  herself  in  opening  for 
thy  entertainment  one  of  the  great  portals  of  her  soul.  But 
that  soul  is  a  whole  realm  of  delights  which  thou  must  now 
survey.  The  world  of  discoveries  within  her,  which  awaits  thy 
explorations,  how  couldst  thou  know  it  in  advance  ?  She  her- 
self does  not  know  it.  She  only  desires,  passionately,  that 
thou  shouldst  be  her  lord  and  master.  Once  possessed,  she 
instinctively  feels  that  she  can  be  even  more  than  she  is.  She 
will  do  what  she  can,  so  that  with  the  infinitude  of  new  sen- 
sations that  love  will  create  in  thee,  thou  shalt  entirely  tra- 
verse her  boundless  sea  of  yet  virgin  emotions,  of  chaste  and 
delicate  desires. 


VII. 

THE    YOUNG    WIFE. HER    SOLITARY    THOUGHTS. 

IN  my  Book  of  Love,  I  have  touched  upon  the  great  exter- 
nal points.  In  this  I  attempt  more  :  I  would  observe  Woman 
herself,  especially  the  woman  who  has  strong  family  ties,  and 
whom  even  the  most  desirable  marriage  quite  uproots  from 
the  soil  to  which  she  was  bound  by  a  thousand  fibres.  A 
truly  dramatic  passage  this !  From  parents  whom  she  regrets 
to  a  husband  she  adores,  she  passes,  not  hesitating,  not  strug- 
gling, but  with  sacred  sorrow.  Does  she  love  the  less  on 


174     The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts. 

that  account  ?  Infinitely  more,  to  the  full  extent  of  her  sacri- 
fice. She  gives  herself  up  with  all  her  grief;  with  boundless 
love,  and  an  unstinted  faith  she  puts  into  his  hand  her  bleed- 
ing heart. 

I  know  not  whether  the  man,  bewildered  by  his  own  hap- 
piness, can  preserve  enough  coherency  to  perceive  all  this ; 
but  for  myself,  I  know  no  sight  more  touching  than  such  a 
young  girl  (shall  I  say  maiden  or  woman  ?)  as  she  suddenly 
finds  herself  transplanted  away  from  her  old  habits,  and  all 
her  familiar  world,  into  a  strange  house.  To  be  sure,  it  is,  or 
it  will  be,  her  own ;  but  she  has  still  to  become  acquainted 
with  it.  Until  then,  all  is  strange  to  her.  She  does  not  know 
where  to  find  any  thing. 

Each  new  article  recalls  to  her  the  good  old  family  things 
she  left  behind.  True,  her  husband,  with  his  strong  persona- 
lity, his  youthful  enthusiasm,  his  charming  infatuation,  warms 
and  illumines  all ;  but  he  is  not  always  there ;  and  if  he  be 
absent  but  for  a  moment,  all,  all  is  changed,  looks  vacant  and 
solitary. 

The  other  house,  in  its  great  harmony  of  multiple  affections 
— father,  mother,  brothers,  sisters,  servants,  pets — wTas  a  world 
ready  made.  But  here  is  a  world  to  make.  Happily,  the 
ardent  and  powerful  creator,  the  life-giver,  Love,  is  here. 

But  Love  is  jealous.  "If  you  wish,"  says  he,  "to  create, 
begin  with  me ;  if  you  wish  me  to  bear  you  into  the  future  on 
my  wings,  do  not  tie  me  down  with  that  strong  thread  of  the 
past.''  The  first  law  of  the  Drama,  unity  in  action,  is  the 
first  law  of  life.  Hope  not  for  the  strong  without  the  simple. 

"Fool,  to  think  the  heart  is  'in  pieces,'  to  think  that  though 
it  be  shared,  each  part  is  still  an  entity !  What  will  become 
of  thee,  if  thou  hast  forever  there  that  complaining,  I  will 
not  say  jealous,  mother,  with  whom  thy  wife  will  live,  whom 
she  will  confide  in  every  day?  Let  but  a  cloud  come  between 
you,  and  it  is  talked  of  again  and  again  :  she  is  comforted  by 
her  mother ;  and  so  the  cloud  takes  form,  and  hangs  on  the 


The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts.     175 

horizon.  But  thyself,  thy  love,  and  Night  would  have  dissi- 
pated it  entirely. 

"  And  her  brothers — think  you  they  will  not  be  a  little 
jealous  of  the  man  who  takes  from  them  her  who  was  the 
joy  of  the  family,  and  its  peculiar  charm?  True,  their  young 
and  pure  emotions  are  not  to  be  condemned.  But  that  only 
makes  the  tie  stronger,  and  the  secret  hostility  more  natural. 

The  strong  family  feeling,  lost  sight  of  for  a  moment,  and 
eclipsed,  will  soon  return.  To  have  grown  up  together,  to 
be  able  to  talk,  among  themselves,  of  a  thousand  nothings, 
precious  and  dear,  of  which  you  have  no  knowledge — this  is 
a  sort  of  marriage.  In  the  past  there  is  this  strength  and 
danger  too,  that,  embellished  by  time,  by  losses  and  regrets, 
by  the  sweet  tears  we  shed  for  it,  it  is  a  hundred  times 
dearer  than  when  it  was  the  present.  The  holy  brightness 
of  the  domestic  hearth,  the  cradle  in  which  they  slept  or 
waked  together,  irresistibly  allures  them  backwards,  to  over- 
look the  present.  The  heart  is  double,  and  it  is  shared.  Tra- 
dition, old  times,  and  retrospective  thoughts  contend  with 
love  hour  by  hour. 

Nature  says :  "  March,  then  !  Take  thy  wife  away !  With- 
out quite  parting  her  family  ties,  live  with  her  apart.  The 
more  distant  her  family,  the  more  thine  own  will  thy  wife  be ; 
the  more,  too,  will  it  be  thy  duty,  thy  happiness,  to  be  all  in 
all  to  her.  Thou  canst  not  neglect  her.  Thou  art  her  father, 
day  by  day  to  form  her  mind  ;  thou  art  her  brother,  to  cheer 
her  with  friendly  chat  and  sweet  companionship ;  thou  art 
her  mother,  to  care  for  her  in  her  little  womanly  needs,  to 
caress  her  and  pet  her.  In  thy  maternal,  as  well  as  conjugal 
arms,  she  will  learn  to  find  her  cradle  when  she  suffers ;  and 
by  all  her  petty,  trifling,  childish  things  thou  shalt  raise  her, 
so  much  the  more,  to  thine  own  aspirations." 

This  is  a  little  hard,  but  it  is  true  and  serious — indeed,  a 
law  of  marriage.  So  she  will  have  her  hours  of  solitude ;  in 
fact  she  has  them  the  very  next  day.  For  as  they  thought 


176     The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts. 

themselves  surely  intrenched  for  a  charming  tete-d-tete,  the 
family  physician,  an  intimate  friend,  passes  the  sentry,  and 
would  carry  off  the  husband.  Any  idle  pretext  serves  his 
purpose — some  urgent  and  important  business,  for  instance, 
in  which  her  husband  alone  can  aid  him.  Of  course  the  latter 
hates  it,  but  goes.  And  as  for  her,  she  is  so  reasonable,  that 
even  at  such  a  time  she  would  not  interfere  with  their  friend- 
ship. In  reality,  it  is  all  done  for  her  sake.  An  old  and  very 
wise  custom  it  was  to  let  the  bride  breathe  a  little.  Would  to 
heaven  the  three  days'  abstinence — save  furtive  snatches — 
which  once  was  imposed  on  them,  were  the  rule  now.  Then 
love  gathered  strength,  and  grew  with  its  desire ;  and  the 
bride  had  time  to  compose  herself;  for  kind  Nature  quickly 
restores,  soothes,  and  strengthens — but  on  condition  that 
there  be  a  little  rest.  Love  lost  nothing  by  it,  as  we  see 
in  the  Song  of  Songs.  For  the  bereaved  virgin,  when  she 
was  no  longer  besieged  and  persecuted,  languished  as  though 
she  were  already  a  widow,  and  wished  him  to  return  at  any 
price.  Truly  a  naive  and  significant  outburst !  She  was  very 
well  satisfied  until  then,  this  chaste  maiden  ;  and  why  did  you 
trouble  her  ?  Do  not  laugh,  incorrigible  man,  but  love  and 
adore  her.  See  her  (as  in  that  glowing  poem  of  Syria)  dis- 
tracted, rising  at  night,  and  seeking  him  through  all  the 
gloomy  streets,  at  the  risk  of  shocking  encounters.  Protect 
her,  and  lead  her  home  again ;  or  rather  bring  back  her  hus- 
band to  her.  Ah !  how  happy  he  is  !  They  will  not  complain 
again ;  the  pain  of  absence  will  render  every  other  trouble 
pleasant. 

To  return  to  her  who  does  not  roam  the  streets  at  night : 
behold  her  for  the  first  time  in  her  new  house,  alone  with  her 
own  thoughts.  She  recollects  herself  now ;  she  broods  over 
her  wondrous  dream,  and  reproduces  its  details.  She  turns  to 
her  husband,  so  tender,  so  generous,  so  good ;  and  her  eyes 
water.  She  recalls  his  gentleness,  his  patience,  his  infinite 
delicacy  under  certain  mysterious  circumstances,  and  she 


The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts.     177 

blushes.  Sometimes  she  fancies  this  is  all  an  illusion,  a 
dream — and  she  fears  to  wake.  But  no — doubt  is  impossible  ; 
for  a  very  palpable  sign  reassures  her,  a  sign  which  will  not 
pass  away.  "  So  much  the  better !  it  is  all  true,''  she  says. 
Thus  her  deep  happiness,  armed  with  thorns,  speaks  to  her 
from  time  to  time — "  So  much  the  better !  I  am  his,  then, 
sealed  with  his  love.  It  is  done,  and  God  could  do  no 
more.'' 

So  haughty  before,  and  so  stately  always,  she  was  still  a 
woman,  and  she  is  loving;  she  clings  because  she  suffers,  she 
would  belong  and  depend /  she  enjoys  in  solitude  the  humili- 
ties of  passion.  If  the  thorns  are  sharp,  she  exalts  herself  the 
more  by  the  difficulty  and  the  duty.  She  is  as  a  wounded 
woman,  who  insists  on  suckling  her  child.  Then  a  strange 
struggle  takes  place,  wherein,  much  desiring,  he  devotedly 
resists.  If  he  is  magnanimous  and  strong,  if  he  abstain  by 
mere  force  of  love,  oh  !  her  very  heart  melts,  and  in  her 
delight  she  repays  him  lavishly,  in  caresses,  in  kisses,  in  tears, 
and  overwhelms  and  intoxicates  him.  She  no  longer  reckons 
with  him,  but  gives  herself  up  in  a  hundred  charming  ways, 
in  short  renders  discretion  impossible  to  him.  He  grows 
dizzy  ;  his  cruel  exaction  fills  him  with  remorse.  But  having 
but  the  sublime  side  of  love,  she,  to  her  sorrow,  perceives 
only  the  divine  uniting. 

It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  for  this  fatal  sensuality  to  be  pro- 
longed too  far,  sometimes  for  weeks  and  months,  to  the  grave 
peril  of  the  devoted  victim.  He  is  sad,  dejected,  full  of 
regret,  and  yet  sins  on  the  same.  She,  proud,  pure,  and  cou- 
rageous, insists  that  they  take  no  one's  advice.  The  only 
remedy  to  be  thought  of,  as  I  see,  would  be  (if  the  husband 
were  a  soldier  or  a  sailor)  sailing  orders,  or  close  duty  for  a 
month.  But  what  despair  for  her!  At  the  first  hint  of 
going,  she  weeps,  and  cries,  "  Let  me  die !  what  is  the  dif- 
ference !  To  lose  thee  is  to  die  !" 

She  is  very  noble  in  all  this  !  acknowledge  that,  my  friend. 

8* 


178     The  Young  Wife.— Solitary  Thoughts. 

But  of  thee  I  know  not  what  to  say.  I  pity  thee,  poor  slave 
of  the  body,  I  pity  our  slavish  nature. 

How  exalted,  and  how  poetic  !  She  is  the  poetry  of  heaven 
fallen  around  you.  May  you  feel  it,  and  weave  with  it  a  deli- 
cate religion !  This  frail  but  fascinating  emanation  from  a 
better  world  is  given  you, — for  what  ?  To  change  you,  to 
make  you  a  better  man.  And  you  need  it ;  for,  frankly,  you 
are  a  barbarian.  Civilize  yourself  a  little.  With  your  gentle 
companion  you  may  reform  your  manners  ;  by  her  pure  love 
you  may  sanctify  your  heart. 

Even  yesterday,  you  were  in  company  with  noisy  friends, 
pursuing  pleasure  without  restraint ;  and  now  you  are  with 
this  young  saint,  this  virgin,  this  charming  sybil,  who  knows, 
or  comprehends,  or  devises  everything,  who  hears  the  very 
grass  grow  in  the  ground. 

She  has  always  lived  in  so  harmonious,  so  pleasant,  so  well- 
regulated  and  quiet  a  home,  that  your  young  strength,  your 
manly  vitality,  though  they  please  her  much,  disturb  her. 
Your  bold  step,  your  somewhat  noisy  way  of  closing  doors 
and  windows,  startle  her  ear.  Her  mother  walked  so  softly ; 
her  father  spoke  but  little,  and  in  so  low  a  tone.  But  your  ring- 
ing voice,  with  the  true  military  quality,  good  to  command  sol- 
diers with,  made  her  start — I  will  not  say  tremble — the  very 
first  day ;  but  she  laughed  in  a  moment.  Soften  yourself  for 
your  gentle  companion,  for  she  wishes  to  be  your  companion 
in  everything.  She  wTould  assist  and  serve  you,  and  be  your 
little  friend,  she  says.  And  so  she  is,  but  a  weak  and  frail  one ; 
and  you  must  take  the  more  care  of  her  because  she  does  not 
like  to  be  taken  care  of.  "  I  delicate  ?  Not  at  all.  I  sick  ? 
Never." 

She  says  to  her  mother,  "Everything  goes  well."  But 
some  day,  when  you  are  in  haste  to  go,  and  are  detained  by 
her,  through  over-attention  to  her  toilet,  you  are  thoughtlessly 
harsh  to  her.  Then,  see  how  her  heart  overflows  in  tears. 
Just  then,  her  mother  arrives,  and  catches  her  in  the  act ;  but 


The  Young  Wife. — Solitary  Thoughts.     179 

blames  herself:  "No,  mamma,  it  is  nothing;  I  was  wrong, 
and  he  corrected  me." 

The  busy  man,  compelled  to  be  absent  long  hours  together, 
finds,  in  her  very  sadness,  a  beautiful,  delicious  compensation, 
in  being  so  anxiously  awaited.  How  touching  she  is !  and 
what  a  pity  you  could  not  return  secretly  and  conceal  yourself, 
so  as  to  witness  her  agitation,  especially  in  the  last  moments. 
How  freely,  then,  might  you  read  on  her  frank  face,  in  her 
eloquent  eyes,  all  that  she  feels  for  you  in  her  heart !  She 
need  not  speak — I  can  hear  it  all :  "  Why  is  he  not  here  ?  It 
is  so  long  since  he  went  away.  Will  he  tell  me  something  ? 
Will  he  have  some  news  to  entertain  me  with  ?  I  do  so  long 
for  him !  to  hear  him  ascend  the  stairs  quickly  and  firmly,  as 
he  always  does !  Then,  in  a  moment,  everything  will  be 
changed ;  the  house,  full  of  happiness  and  mirth,  will  fairly 
tremble  with  joy.  The  table,  the  hearth,  will  glow  again. 
Such  a  fine  appetite,  such  rapid  stories !  His  plate  shall  be 
here. — No,  better  here.  These  are  his  favorite  dishes,  ours — 
for  us  two  alone  (Fido  shan't  have  any) — a  kiss  for  every 
mouthful.  If  the  fire  makes  me  sleepy,  or  if  I  make  believe, 
he,  who  never  sleeps,  will  know  how  to  wake  me.  I  have  on 
the  head-dress  he  thought  so  pretty. — But  I  am  wrong. — If 
he  should  be  tired  ?  Or  oh !  if  he  should  say  that  I  have 
taken  possession  of  him,  expressly  for  to-night,  I  should  feel 
so  ashamed !" 

Such  are  her  simple  thoughts,  which  perhaps  I  should  have 
done  as  well  to  keep  to  myself.  It  is  four  o'clock,  and  you 
are  not  expected  till  six,  but  still  she  cannot  keep  still.  She 
goes  and  comes,  and  looks  at  the  sun,  and  takes  her  place  at 
the  window.  "  What  is  the  matter  ?  Night  is  coming  on, 
and  my  flowers  are  closing.  The  smoke  is  rising  from  the 
chimneys.  Those  people  are  very  happy  ;  they  have  returned, 
and  their  families  are  united.  What  is  he  doing,  and  where 
is  he  ?" 

By  accident,  that  day,  something  unavoidable  detains  you, 


/8o      She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client. 

The  clock  strikes  seven.  Oh !  how  her  tide,  her  torrent 
of  fancies,  apprehensions,  dreams,  rushes  in  !  Even  her 
natural  sweetness  is  disturbed.  A  tear  of  impatience  escapes 
her,  and  (could  I  have  believed  it  ?)  she  stamps  her  foot. 
Ten  or  twenty  times  already,  the  table,  the  fire  have  been 
retouched,  improved,  perfected ;  but  they  bring  not  back  the 
master.  Her  anxiety  is  at  its  height ;  her  pulse  beats  rapidly. 
But  hark !  a  sound  on  the  steps — three  steps  at  a  time — he 
rushes  in.  And  she,  too — another  would  have  controlled  her- 
self, would  have  maintained  her  dignity — would  have  waited ! 
But  this  poor  little  thing  waits  for  nothing,  but  hastens  to 
drown  herself  in  your  kiss,  and  faint  between  your  arms. 


VIII. 

SHE    WOULD    BE    HIS    PARTNER    AND    HIS    CLIENT. 

ONE  day  I  heard  a  pretty  saying  of  the  peasants :  "  See, 
they  have  been  married  only  a  week,  and  already  they  are 
so  loving  !"  That  already  is  charming.  It  expresses  a  very 
truly  and  deeply  human  idea — that  we  love  in  proportion  to 
our  intimate  knowledge  of  each  other,  in  proportion  to  the 
length  of  time  we  live  together  and  enjoy  each  other's  society. 
This  may  astonish  the  blase,  the  sick,  and  the  tired.  The 
deranged  stomach  thinks  it  necessary  continually  to  change 
its  food;  it  finds  everything  insipid,  and  has  no  appetite. 
If  it  were  healthier,  it  would  see  that  the  same  is  never 
the  same ;  when  one's  taste  has  its  natural  and  correct  tone, 
it  perceives  the  marvellously  delicate  shades  with  which  the 
same  food  is  incessantly  diversified. 

If  this  is  true  of  taste,  the  lowest  of  the  senses,  how  much 
more  so  of  love,  the  most  delicate,  the  most  complex  I 


She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client.      18 1 

In  the  higher  orders  of  animals,  we  all  know  that  there  is 
much  more  variety  in  the  renewings  and  metamorphoses  of  a 
single  female,  than  in  the  brutal  tasting  of  many.  With  man, 
love  is  a  voyage  of  discovery  in  a  little  world — infinite, 
always  infinite,  because  always  renewed — from  mystery  to 
mystery,  by  the  eternal  revealings  of  the  beloved — ever 
new  and  ever  unsounded;  because  we  are  always  creating 
there. 

The  honeymoon  days  of  marriage  are  those  of  dizzy,  blind 
passion — if  I  may  say  so,  a  season  of  physiology.  In  these 
first  tastings  of  the  tree  of  life  we  hardly  distinguish  its  true 
flavor.  The  newly-wedded  wife  would  be  much  humiliated,  if 
she  possessed  sufficient  sang-froid  to  perceive  the  truth,  in  spite 
of  so  many  fine  speeches — namely,  how  much  her  sex  has  to 
do  with  her  lover's  infatuation,  how  little  she  herself.  It  is 
only  with  time  that  a  man  learns  to  fully  appreciate  a  distinct, 
loving,  and  beloved  personality — the  woman  whose  preference 
for  him  makes  her  superior  to  every  other.  He  loves  her, 
then,  for  the  pleasure  she  gives  and  has  given ;  he  loves  her  as 
his  own  creation,  sculptured  and  impregnated  by  himself. 
He  loves  her  for  that  high  attribute  of  love,  that  in  its  most 
passionate  climax  it  is  no  longer  frenzy,  nor  annihilation,  but 
God  made  manifest. 

"People  love,"  they  say,  "because  they  do  not  yet  know 
each  other ;  as  soon  as  they  do,  they  will  love  no  longer." 

Who,  then,  do  know  each  other  ?  I  meet  in  the  world 
only  people  who  are  ignorant  of  each  other,  who  in  the  same 
chamber  live  strangers  to  each  other ;  who,  having  failed 
awkwardly  at  the  only  point  where  the^  might  have  blended, 
remain  discouraged,  inert,  in  stupid  juxtaposition,  like  one 
stone  against  another.  Who  knows  ?  the  stone  struck,  might 
have  given  forth  electric  sparks,  or  perhaps  gold  or  diamonds. 

Another  maxim  is :  "  The  marriage  once  consummated, 
adieu  to  love." 

Marriage,  indeed !  and  where  will  you  find  it  ?    I  see  it 


182      She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client. 

almost  nowhere ;  the  married  people  I  know  can  scarcely  be 
called  married. 

That  term,  marriage,  is  very  elastic ;  it  admits  of  immense 
thermometrical  latitude.  One  is  married  at  twenty  degrees, 
another  at  ten,  another  at  zero.  Let  us  always  distinguish 
and  ask,  "  In  what  degree  are  they  man  and  wife  ?" 

Everything  in  married  life  depends  on  the  beginning ;  and 
we  must  confess  that,  in  general,  the  fault  lies  not  with  the 
women.  Young  ladies,  really  young,  whom  confession,  ro- 
mance, and  the  world  have  not  precociously  matured  and  de- 
veloped, bring  to  marriage  delightful  luxuriance  of  heart,  an 
instinctive  docility,  and  good  intentions.  They  have  great  ex- 
pectations of  the  life  on  which  they  are  entering.  She,  who, 
with  her  parents,  was  industrious,  studied  zealously,  and 
seemed  to  know  everything,  wishes  now  to  learn  everything 
anew  from  her  husband.  And  she  is  very  right,  for  it  will  all 
return  to  her  invested  with  life  and  ardor.  She  at  first 
received  it  passively,  as  inert  and  cold  matter;  but  now  she  will 
grasp  it,  quickened  with  that  burning  electricity  which  is  the 
only  magnetism  that  unites  soul  and  body. 

Yet  we  grant  that  her  father  acted  wisely  :  if  he  had  given 
her  a  stronger  impress,  he  would  have  committed  a  blunder. 
The  unknown  and  unforeseen  fate  of  his  daughter,  was  this  very 
same  future  husband  ;  it  was  necessary  then  that  her  education 
should  not  be  too  definitive,  but  somewhat  elastic.  Besides 
there  is  no  stamina  in  the  family — the  mother,  very  often,  still 
entertains  the  old  superannuated  ideas  which  cannot  be  those 
of  a  young  man ;  and  the  father,  though  more  decided,  has 
not  been  able  to  influence  his  daughter  as  to  many  difficult 
and  dangerous  questions,  wherein  the  heart  and  the  judgment 
are  at  stake.  How  many  maxims  in  morality  and  facts  in 
history,  has  he  not  shown  her  in  profile  !  but  it  belongs  to  the 
husband  to  fill  them  up. 

Those  vague,  those  incomplete  family  traditions,  the  hesita« 
lion  and  vacillation  in  the  life  and  words  of  old  persons,  are 


She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client.      183 

precisely  what  the  young  wife  must  be  removed  from.  She 
desires  a  man  of  decision,  who  will  never  be  in  doubt,  who 
will  think  and  act  with  firmness  and  strength ;  who  even 
on  trying  and  painful  occasions  will  retain  the  serenity  and 
good-humor  of  invincible  courage.  She  will  take  pleasure, 
with  such  a  true  man,  in  being  able  to  act  the  woman  ;  in  hav- 
ing for  her  confidence  and  her  life  a  good  pillow  (but  not  too 
soft)  on  which  she  may  lie  in  perfect  rest.  Of  such  a  prize,  she 
says,  with  her  whole  heart,  "  He  is  my  master ;"  but  her  smile 
adds  :  "  Whose  mistress  I  am" — mistress  by  the  ,  great 
subordination,  mistress,  in  the  full  delight  of  obeying — which, 
when  one  loves,  is  bliss  unutterable. 

I  do  not  remember  what  Indian  law-maker  it  is  who  forbids 
the  young  wife,  loving  and  admiring,  to  look  at  her  husband 
too  much.  And  what  should  she  look  upon,  if  not  her  own 
living,  luminous  book,  wherein  she  may  read  at  a  glance, 
both  what  she  shall  believe,  and  what  she  shall  do. 

How  happy  she  will  be !  What  limitless  faith,  what  a  pas- 
sion of  obedience  she  brings  to  you.  As  a  maiden  she  eludes 
you.  You  may  read  in  the  songs  of  the  modern  Persians, 
in  the  ballads  of  Provei^e,  how  she  flies  through  all 
nature,  taking  a  hundred  forms  that  she  may  be  pursued. 
But  once  overtaken,  wounded,  become  a  woman,  far  from 
flying,  she  follows,  willingly  follows  her  captor ;  she  would 
even  be  held  a  closer  captive.  And  in  this  there  is  no  decep- 
tion ;  in  this  naive  and  humble  aspect,  she  fears  only  to  be 
t»'~iiblesome ;  she  walks  behind,  step  by  step,  and  says,  "I 
will  go  anywhere."  Create,  if  you  can,  a  new  world,  full  of 
unknown  perils,  she  will  follow  you  there.  She  will  become 
an  element — air,  water,  fire — and  follow  you  into  the  infinite ; 
or,  better  still,  she  will  be  all  imbued  with  life  which  shall 
mingle  with  your  own — if  you  like,  a  flower ;  if  you  choose, 
a  hero. 

Beneficent  gift  of  God !  Woe  to  the  cold,  dull,  proud  man, 
who,  thinking  he  possesses  everything,  knows  not  how  to 


184      She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client. 

profit  by  the  unbounded  devotion,  the  delicious  abandonment 
of  her  who  gives  herself  up,  without  reservation,  that  he  may 
be  made  the  happier  for  it. 

The  man  has  a  hundred  ideas,  a  hundred  objects  of  con 
centration ;  she  only  one — her  husband.  You  should  say  to 
yourself,  on  going  out  in  the  morning,  "  What  will  my  darling, 
my  soul's  joy,  do  all  alone,  the  many  hours  she  will  wait  for 
me  ?  What  shall  I  bring  to  her  to  interest  and  refresh  her  ; 
for  it  is  from  me  she  receives  her  life."  Remember  this,  and 
never  bring  back  to  her,  as  so  many  do,  the  cares  of  the  day, 
the  bitter  dregs  of  failure.  You  are  sustained  by  the  excite- 
ment of  the  struggle,  by  the  necessity  of  exertion,  or  the 
hope  of  doing  better  to-morrow ;  but  she,  this  poor  woman- 
soul,  so  sensitive  as  to  all  that  relates  to  you,  she  would  be 
very  differently  affected  by  the  blow ;  she  would  retain  the 
wound,  and  languish  of  it  long.  Be  young  and  brave  for 
both ;  return  serious,  if  the  misfortune  be  indeed  important, 
but  never  overwhelmed — spare,  oh !  spare  your  child. 

The  best  way  to  strengthen  her  against  these  chances,  is  to 
very  gradually  initiate  her  into  your  business.  This  is  practi- 
cable in  many  professions;  we  improperly  circumscribe  the 
circle  of  those  which  woman  may  enter,  though  many  are, 
doubtless,  too  laborious  for  her,  requiring  effort,  time,  and 
will. 

But  you  could  not  better  employ  your  time.  What  an 
admirable  companion !  what  a  useful  partner !  How  much 
will  be  gained  by  it,  especially  for  your  hearts,  and  your 
domestic  happiness.  Thus  to  be  one  is  true  strength,  repose 
and  freedom. 

She  wishes  to  work  with  you.  Well,  take  her  at  her 
word;  set  about  it,  not  with  the  petty  attentions  of  gallantry, 
but  with  strong,  earnest  love.  Know  that  at  this  time  she  is 
capable  of  great  effort,  of  continued  application,  that  she  will 
do  anything  to  be  loved. 

I  can  cite  the  noblest,  the  most  surprising  examples  of  this: 


She  would  be  His  Partner  and  Client.      185 

An  illustrious  physician,  at  the  head  of  one  of  the  greatest 
Schools  of  the  age,  had,  in  his  young  wife,  his  favorite  dis- 
ciple and  his  competent  assistant,  possessed  of  a  mind  truly 
manly  in  its  vigor,  and  of  profound  sagacity.  The  great 
physiologist,  who  discovered  and  defined  the  law  of  Ovology, 
often  saw,  and  saw  correctly,  as  has  been  proved,  through 
the  eyes  of  a  woman.  This  is  perhaps  the  noblest  fact  of 
its  kind;  that  an  admirable  wife,  by  persevering  devotion, 
thus  contributed  to  the  revelation  of  marriage.  Without 
this  woman  would  women  have  ever  been  understood  ?  Her 
heroic  exertions,  directed  by  genius,  fathomed  the  great  mys- 
tery, which  has  opened  a  world  to  us.  Hitherto  we  had  loved 
at  hazard,  we  had  loved  in  the  dark.  Humanity,  which 
henceforth  will  love  in  the  light,  will  not  be  ungrateful,  and 
in  drinking  from  its  wells  of  affection  and  happiness,  will 
always  remember  Madame  Pouchet,  of  Rouen. 

Every  man,  taking  into  consideration  the  character  of  his 
profession  and  the  capacity  of  his  wife,  should  establish  his 
community  of  interests  in  a  greater  or  less  degree,  but  it 
should  inevitably  be  done.  The  artist,  absorbed  in  his 
technicalities  and  his  specialties,  and  in  the  minute  details 
of  execution,  ought  not  to  retire  within  himself,  and  shut  out 
his  wife  from  the  great  idea  which  inspires  his  work,  and 
which  she  herself  would  have  fostered  and  sustained.  The 
lawyer  or  the  politician  cannot  afford  to  keep  her  in  igno- 
rance of  what  makes  up  his  life ;  she  can  seldom  be  of  any 
use  to  him,  but  she  should  be  none  the  less  informed.  She 
is  much  more  at  home  with  the  natural  sciences.  The  physi- 
cian, who  returns  home  fatigued  and  harassed  with  his  grave 
responsibilities,  cannot  be  a  "  society''  man;  he  will  scarcely  go 
to  the  drawing-room  to  pass  his  leisure  moments.  How  com- 
pletely might  he  rest  on  the  domestic  hearth,  pursuing  his 
peaceful  study  of  the  secrets  of  life,  which  indirectly  may 
arm  him  for  his  combat  against  death. 

Infinitely  varied  are  the  souls  of  women !     Men,  as  I  have 


i86   Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith. 

said  before,  are  cast  in  the  same  mould,  made  uniform  by  edu- 
cation ;  but  women  are  much  more  natural,  and  very  diverse. 
Nothing  is  more  charming  than  the  fact  that  no  one  woman 
resembles  another.  Voyagers  on  tropical  seas,  sometimes  be- 
hold the  water,  for  immense  distances,  transformed  into  a  bril- 
liant parterre,  glowing  with  an  infinite  variety  of  bright-hued 
creations.  Are  they  plants,  flowers  ?  Yes — living  flowers,  a 
marvellous  iris  of  exquisite  lives,  seemingly  fluid,  but  organ- 
ized— moving,  active,  having  volition.  It  is  the  same  with  that 
social  parterre  which  the  female  world  presents.  Are  they 
flowers?  No,  they  are  souls. 

Most  men,  sensual  and  blind,  hi  their  flatteries  and  caresses, 
say:  "They  are  flowers;  let  us  pluck  them;  let  us  inhale 
and  enjoy  their  perfume ;  they  bloom  only  for  our  pleasure.'' 
Oh !  how  much  greater  the  pleasure  would  be  if  they  would 
cherish  the  poor  flower,  if  they  would  leave  it  on  its  stem,  and 
cultivate  it  according  to  its  nature !  What  a  charm  of  hap- 
piness would  it  not  give  back  to  him  who  would  devote  his 
soul  to  it ! 

But  as  the  flowers  are  varied,  so  are  the  modes  of  nurture. 
One  needs  grafting,  the  introduction  of  a  different  sap,  for 
she  is  as  yet  young  and  wild ;  another  soft  and  sweet,  and 
thoroughly  permeable,  needs  only  imbibition — nothing  is  want- 
ing but  to  infiltrate  her  life ;  another  is  more  than  fluid,  she  is 
fantastic,  a  fly-away ;  the  dust  of  her  love  is  scattered  to  the 
wind;  she  must  be  housed,  concentrated,  above  all,  fecun- 
dated. 


IX. 

ARTS    AND    READING. THE    COMMON    FAITH. 

A  BIRD-SONG  of  our  fathers,  shows  the  trivial  ideal  of 
their  day: 


Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith.    187 

I  was  little,  and  a  fool, 
Yvrhen  they  sent  me  to  school; 
I  was  little,  and  a  fool, 
When  they  sent  me  to  school ; 
But  nothing  there  I  heard, 
Save  a  little  loving  word, 
Which,  now  I  have  a  lover, 
I  am  always  saying  over. 

But  this  "  little  loving  word,"  you  must  develop ;  and 
what  does  it  contain  ?  The  three  worlds,  all  that  is  real — and 
no  more. 

She  would  be  but  too  happy  to  leave  you  to  work,  to  act, 
to  reason  alone ;  she  would  be  glad  to  be  only  a  charming 
thing,  that  gave  you  pleasure.  But  you  must  make  an  indivi- 
dual of  her,  and  introduce  her  more  and  more  into  your  world 
of  thought.  The  more  intellectual  she  becomes,  the  more 
means  will  she  possess  to  unite  herself  more  closely  with  you. 
Make  her  strong — never  fear.  She  will  be  softened  at  finding 
herself  more  free  through  you,  happy  in  having  more  to  give, 
in  possessing  a  will,  so  as  the  more  completely  to  lose  herself 
in  you. 

Learn  this  new  thing,  one  which  shall  constitute  one  of  the 
blessings  of  the  future,  in  a  more  civilized  society:  namely, 
every  art,  every  science  affords  us  special  means  whe^  eby  to 
penetrate  more  profoundly  into  the  personality. 

It  is  not  easy  for  tAvo  souls  alone  to  fathom  each  other,  and 
to  mingle  together.  But  each  of  those  great  methods  which 
are  called  sciences  or  arts,  is  a  mediator  that  touches  a  new 
chord,  and  discovers  an  organ  of  unknown  love,  in  the  beloved. 

Learn  this  other  thing,  too  little  observed,  which  renders  our 
communion  of  ideas  with  woman  delightful :  namely,  that  she 
receives  them  by  senses  which  are  altogether  different  from 
ours,  and  gives  them  back  to  us,  under  most  beautiful  and 
touching  forms  which  have  all  the  charm  of  complete  surprises. 
What  to  man  is  only  light,  is  to  woman  warmth,  first  of  all 


i88   Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith. 

An  idea  takes  the  form  of  sentiment ;  if  it  is  profound,  it  be« 
comes  nervous  emotion.  A  thought,  an  invention,  some  use- 
ful novelty,  affects  your  brain  pleasantly,  and  makes  you  smile, 
as  with  an  agreeable  surprise.  But  she,  she  feels  at  once  the 
good  which  will  result  from  it,  a  new  happiness  for  humanity. 
This  touches  her  heart — she  trembles — she  shivers  with  agi- 
tation— she  is  well-nigh  weeping.  You  hasten  to  strengthen 
her,  you  take  her  hand  tenderly,  but  her  emotion  is  not 
calmed ;  like  a  circle  in  the  water,  spreading  into  ever- widening 
circles,  it  extends  throughout  her  whole  system,  to  the  very 
depths  of  her  nature,  where  it  mingles  with  her  tenderness, 
and,  like  everything  else  in  her,  melts  in  love  for  you ;  so  she 
throws  herself  on  your  breast,  and  clasps  you  in  her  arms. 

What  boundless  happiness  will  you  enjoy  in  traversing  with 
her  the  world  of  Art ;  for  each  art  is  but  a  different  way  of 
loving;  each,  especially  in  its  perfection,  blends  itself  with  love, 
or  with  religion,  which  is  the  same  thing.  Whoever  initiates 
a  woman  in  these  higher  temples,  is  her  priest  and  lover. 
The  stories  of  Heloise,  and  the  new  Heloise,  do  not  belong  to 
the  past,  but  to  the  present,  and  the  future — in  a  word,  to 
eternity. 

That  is  why  the  maiden  can  pursue  art  only  to  a  certain 
extent,  and  why  her  father  is  an  imperfect  guide.  He  cannot, 
he  wi1  not,  allow  her  to  pass  with  him  beyond  certain  grave 
and  frigid  regions.  He  leads  her  there,  but  when  she  would 
advance  farther,  in  her  young  and  pure  enthusiasm,  he  stops — 
draws  back ;  for  she  stands  on  the  dangerous  threshold  of  a 
new  world — Love. 

For  instance,  in  drawing,  he  gives  her  the  old  Florentine 
school  in  its  grandeur,  the  Madonnas  of  Raphael,  the  chaste 
pictures  of  Poussin.  It  would  be  impious  to  place  Correggio 
before  her — with  his  quiverings,  and  his  burning  passion.  It 
would  be  immoral  to  show  her  the  deep  but  unwholesome 
meaning,  the  feverish  and  sinister  grace  of  the  dying  Italy, 
in  the  smile  of  the  Joconda. 


Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith.    189 

Life  itself,  life  with  its  emotions,  teaches  only  by  love. 
When  the  superb  Nereid,  the  luxurious  blonde  of  Rubens, 
treads  the  foaming  waters,  murmurs  the  marriage  hymn,  and 
already  conceives  of  the  future — so  much  the  worse  for  the 
maiden  who  shall  feel  that  emotion,  shall  understand  that 
je  ne  sais  quoi,  which  issues  from  her  amorous  mouth.  In  her 
heart,  she  would  know  it  too  well. 

Even  the  master-piece  of  Greece,  pure  and  sublime  in  its 
greatness,  so  far,  so  very  far  from  the  sensuality  of  the  painter 
of  Antwerp — the  fainting  women,  the  swooning  mothers  of  the 
temple  of  Theseus — what  maiden  would  dare  copy  them  ? 
Such  the  palpitation,  such  the  heart-beating,  visible  under 
those  beautiful  robes,  that  she  would  be  troubled.  The  con- 
tagion of  love  and  maternity  would  utterly  confuse  her.  Oh  ! 
better  that  she  wait  awhile.  Only  under  the  eyes  of  her 
lover,  in  the  arms  of  her  husband  may  she  be  inspired  by 
these  things  and  appropriate  to  herself  their  life — may  inhale 
their  effluvia  and  their  warm  impregnation,  may  drink  long 
draughts  of  their  beauty,  adorn  herself  with  it,  and  endow 
with  it  the  fruit  of  her  bosom. 

Music  is  the  true  glory,  the  very  spirit  of  the  modern  world. 
I  define  it,  the  art  of  fusing  hearts,  the  art  of  mutual  penetra- 
tion and  an  intimacy  so  close,  that  by  it,  into  the  heart 
of  your  beloved,  your  wife,  the  mother  of  your  children, 
you  shall  penetrate  still  deeper.  What  Dumesnil  and  Alex- 
andre  have  said  of  grand  symphonies,  of  the  music  of  friend- 
ship, of  chamber  music,  I  admire  too  much  to  repeat.  I 
have  only  this  to  add ;  that  between  man  and  woman  all  is  the 
music  of  love,  the  music  of  home,  and  of  the  closet.  A  duet 
is  a  marriage ;  the  singers  do  not  simply  lend  themselves  to 
it,  but  they  give  up  their  hearts  for  the  time,  give  themselves 
up  with  even  more  abandon  than  they  desire.  What  shall  I 
say  then  of  her  who  every  evening  sings,  with  the  first  comer, 
those  moving,  pathetic  melodies  which  blend  two  souls  toge- 
ther as  completely  as  the  first  kiss  ?  The  lover,  the  husband, 


190   Arcs  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith. 

will  come  too  late,  she  has  nothing  more  to  bestow  upon 
him. 

Happy  the  man,  whose  wife  renews  his  heart,  day  by  day, 
with  music  in  the  evening!  "All  that  I  have,  I  give  to 
you,"  she  says.  '^My  ideas?  No,  I  am  still  so  ignorant; 
but  through  you  I  shall  in  time  know  everything.  All  I  have 
to  give  you,  is  the  breath  of  my  heart,  the  life  of  my  life,  my 
soul,  without  form,  in  which  my  love  floats  like  an  uncertain 
shadow,  a  dream.  Oh,  take  both  me  and  my  dream!" 

"Ah!  how  little  I  know  of  music,"  he  says.  "What  a 
savage  life  I  have  lived." 

She  begins,  and  strives  to  abandon  herself  wholly  to  the 
inspiration,  but  cannot  satisfy  herself — it  is  so  pure,  so  lofty ! 

He  soars  on  golden  wings  into  the  vast  heaven  of  love. 
He  would  also  accompany  her  a  little  with  his  voice ;  at  first, 
he  dares  not,  but  hums  low,  timidly  restraining  his  power. 
Then,  by  degrees,  launching  out,  he  thrills  her  in  his  turn. 
Half  choked,  she  tries  to  go  on — she  trembles — oh,  how  united 
they  are! — but  their  emotion  is  too  strong,  their  voices  fail, 
the  song  dies  away  in  an  abyss  of  profound  harmony. 

Music  is  the  crown,  the  perfect  flower  of  arts.  But  to 
make  it  the  principal  basis  of  education,  as  is  often  done,  is 
senseless  and  decidedly  dangerous.  Music  is  a  modern  art, 
almost  without  a  past ;  the  arts  of  Design,  on  the  contrary, 
are  of  all  times,  and  are  represented  in  every  period  of  his- 
tory. For  this  reason,  alone,  they  furnish  rich  and  varied 
instruction.  At  every  epoch,  sculpture  and  painting  afford  not 
only  models  for  imitation,  but  the  most  fruitful  texts  for  intel- 
lectual improvement.  These  texts  identify  themselves  won- 
derfully with  those  of  literature,  and  even  supply  their  place. 
What  Rabelais  and  Shakspeare  could  not  express  of  some 
idea,  some  nice  feature,  some  aspect  of  their  age,  is  told  by 
Da  Vinci,  by  Correggio,  by  Michael  Angelo,  or  Goujon. 

All  the  too  passionate  books  which  the  father  avoided,  from 
which,  at  the  utmost,  he  only  dared  to  make  extracts,  ar« 


Arts  and  Reading. — The  Common  Faith.    191 

laid  open  before  you.  And  what  delight  will  it  not  afford 
you  thus  to  place  between  you  and  your  beloved  all  the  trea- 
sures of  life,  both  the  Bibles  of  history  and  the  Bibles  of 
nature!  Their  admirable  concordance  will  be  to  her  as  a 
pillow  on  which  her  faith  may  rest.  Every  evening,  without 
exciting  her  too  much,  and  without  interfering  with  her*  re- 
pose, some  pleasant  and  improving  reading,  varied  with  affec- 
tionate conversation,  may  reveal  to  her  something  of  the 
universal  love,  and  some  new  aspect  of  God.  She  may  now 
properly  know  all  things,  for  she  is  a  woman.  What  would 
have  troubled  the  maiden  will  sanctify  the  wife's  heart,  and 
give  her,  by  your  side,  sweet  sleep  and  blessed  dreams. 

It  is  through  love  that  woman  receives  everything,  even 
her  intellectual  culture.  Would  you  nourish  her  with  the  trite 
and  the  commonplace  ?  Under  the  pretext  of  facility  this  is 
always  done ;  we  know  that,  on  the  contrary,  only  the  great 
and  strong  are  simple.  Woman  says  modestly :  "  I  leave 
great  facts  to  men,  and  read  only  light  novels."  But  these 
novels,  tame  and  insipid  with  their  sickly  images  of  love,  are 
not  the  less  complicated  in  incident  and  plot.  No,  let  us 
always  look  to  the  highest;  there  shall  we  find  the  great 
intellect  and  the  strong  heart,  even  purity  itself. 

Love  !  where  shall  we  look  for  it.  Many  a  woman  seeks  it 
in  Balzac.  She  had  better  go  to  Madame  Sand,  for  in  her 
works  there  is,  at  least,  always  an  aspiration  for  the  ideal; 
and  better  still,  to  the  Cid  and  Romeo,  to  Sakontala  and 
Virgil's  Dido. 

But  from  an  enormous  height,  above  all  other  human 
works,  the  great  legends  of  antiquity  excel  the  rest,  putting 
them  to  shame. 

Our  ideas  of  progress  create  no  illusions ;  antiquity  has 
left  us  to  fathom  the  depth  of  Analysis,  which  is  the  ground- 
work of  progress.  With  its  synthetic  power,  and  the  organic 
vitality  which  propelled  it  forward,  this  young  giant,  with 
two  strides,  touched  the  poles,  and  reached  the  very  bounda- 


192         Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness. 

ries  of  the  world.  Analysis  has  created  the  great  types  of 
divine  simplicity.  Thus,  marriage  in  Persia  is  of  a  type  so 
heroic,  that  even  in  Rome  it  suffers  a  prosaic,  vulgar  de- 
basement. Hence,  affection,  ardor,  the  divine  power  of  life 
and  instinctive  tenderness,  love — sensual  it  may  be — but 
diffusing  itself  in  impulses  of  universal  beneficence :  such  is 
the  story  of  Egypt.  Nothing  has  ever  been  added  to  it,  and 
we  can  only  adore  it. 


X. 


THE      GREAT      LEGEND       OF       AFRICA. WOMAN       THE 

GODDESS    OF    GOODNESS. 

(Fragment  from  the  History  of  Love.} 

THE  chef-d'oeuvre  of  Egyptian  art,  the  Rameses,  as  it  is 
seen  in  Ipsamboul,  in  Memphis,  and  in  the  museum  at  Turin, 
affords  a  unique  example  of  goodness  in  power,  and  of  sub- 
lime repose.  Its  expression,  which  one  might  deem  peculiar 
to  that  face,  I  have  found  again,  in  a  degree,  in  the  head  of 
a  young  man,  on  a  beautiful  coin  of  Ley  den.  It  is  cha- 
racteristic of  the  race,  and  very  different  from  the  sharp,  thin, 
Arab  profile,  which  seems  cut  with  a  razor.  In  this  head 
there  is  an  extreme  gentleness,  and  a  fulness,  which,  how- 
ever, is  not  heavy,  but  seems  the  effect  of  a  peaceful  develop- 
ment of  all  the  moral  qualities.  Man's  heart  is  in  his  face, 
sanctifying,  beautifying  the  external  forms  by  the  internal 
ray. 

This  extraordinary  expression  of  countenance  is  more  than 
individual ;  it  is  the  revelation  of  a  race.  In  it  we  perceive 
that  the  great  Egypt  was  as  a  moral  festival ;  the  joy  and  the 


Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness.         193 

divine  smile  of  that  deep  African  world,  shut  in  on  every 
other  side.  The  highest  type  of  the  African,  above  the 
negro,  above  the  black,  appears  to  be  the  Egyptian.  So 
unfortunate,  so  constantly  kept  down,  from  the  time  of  Joseph 
to  that  of  Mohammed  Ali — even  to  our  own  time  indeed — 
the  poor  fellah  of  Egypt  is  yet  a  man  of  intelligence  and  un- 
common dexterity.  A  mechanic  in  the  service  of  the  pacha 
told  me  that  the  poor  man  whom  he  took  into  his  workshops 
paid  the  closest  attention,  imitated  him  perfectly,  and  became 
in  a  fortnight  as  good  a  workman  as  a  European  in  two 
years. 

This  is  also  owing  to  their  gentleness  and  their  great 
docility,  to  their  necessity  of  pleasing  and  satisfying.  An 
excellent  race  of  men,  they  desire  only  to  love  and  to  be 
loved.  In  the  cruel  immolation  of  the  individual  and  the 
family,  which  power  has  always  compelled,  their  mutual  ten- 
derness seems  so  much  the  greater.  The  premature  death  of 
the  man  yielding  to  excessive  toil,  the  child  snatched  away  by 
cruel  military  razzias,  make  for  them  an  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession of  tears  and  sighs  and  mourning.  The  old  lamentation 
of  Isis,  seeking  her  Osiris,  has  never  ceased  in  Egypt ;  along 
her  great  river,  at  every  moment,  you  hear  it  repeated.  You 
find  it  painted  and  sculptured  all  through  the  country.  What 
are  those  monuments  of  grief,  that  infinite  care  to  save  what 
may  be  saved  of  the  body,  that  binding  the  dead  with  fillets 
inscribed  with  prayers,  that  commending  to  the  gods  the 
absent  one  ?  I  have  never  visited  Egypt ;  but  when  I  go  over 
our  Egyptian  museums,  I  feel  that  this  immense  effort  of  an 
entire  people,  these  excessive  expenses  imposed  upon  the 
poorest,  are  the  most  ardent  expression  of  aspiration  the  heart 
of  man  has  ever  shown — to  cherish  the  beloved  object,  and 
follow  it  in  death. 

Religions  until  then  had  dealt  in  epics ;  but  hush ! — here  is 
the  Drama ;  and  a  new  genius  arises  over  Europe  and  over 
Asia. 

9 


1Q4         Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness. 

Let  us  lay  the  scene  first.  This  land  of  toil  and  tears, 
Egypt,  is  in  itself  a  feast,  and  a  land  of  joy.  In  the  burning 
bosom  of  Africa,  fervid  mother  of  a  swarthy  race,  is  opened 
by  a  breeze  from  the  north  a  valley  of  promise.  From  un- 
known mountains  the  torrent  of  fertility  descends.  We  share 
the  frantic  joy  of  the  traveller,  well-nigh  dying  of  thirst,  who, 
overcoming  the  sands  at  last,  reaches  his  longed-for  oasis — 
Egypt  at  last,  the  great  oasis  of  Africa. 

In  Egypt,  the  first  word  is  "Isis,"  and  "Isis''  is  the  last; 
for  Woman  reigns  there.  It  is  a  remarkable  saying,  that  of 
Diodorus,  that  in  Egypt  husbands  swear  obedience  to  their 
wives — an  exaggerated  expression  of  the  great  fact  of  female 
predominance. 

The  lofty  genius  of  Africa,  the  queen  of  ancient  Egypt,  is 
this  Isis ;  her  throne  eternally  decked  with  attributes  of  fecun- 
dation. The  lotus  is  her  sceptre,  the  calyx  of  the  flower  of 
love.  Instead  of  a  diadem,  royally  on  her  brow  she  bears  a 
vulture,  the  insatiate  bird,  that  never  cries  "  enough."  And 
to  show  that  this  greediness  will  not  be  vain,  in  her  strange 
headdress  the  insignia  of  the  fruitful  cow  rise  above  the  vul- 
ture, to  signify  maternity.  This  kind  fruitfulness,  this  inex- 
haustible maternal  goodness,  is  what  glorifies  and  purifies  the 
heats  of  Africa.  Presently  come,  too  thickly  indeed,  death 
and  mourning,  and  the  eternity  of  sorrow  to  sanctify  them. 
Do  religions  spring  only  from  nature,  from  climate,  from  the 
inevitable  destinies  of  race  and  country?  Oh!  much  more 
from  the  needs  of  the  heart.  Almost  always  they  arise  out  of 
the  sufferings  of  the  wounded  soul.  In  the  pangs  of  a  new 
dispensation,  man  plucks  from  it,  as  from  a  tree  of  sorrows, 
fresh  fruit  of  consolation.  Never  has  any  religion  borne  clearer 
testimony  to  this  than  the  faith  of  old  Egypt.  It  is  manifestly 
the  sublime  consolation  of  a  poor  laborious  people,  who,  toil- 
ing without  respite,  fearing  death  so  much  the  more  because 
family  was  everything  to  them,  sought  their  alleviations  in 
immortal  nature,  trusted  themselves  to  its  resurrections,  and 


Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness.         195 

prayed  to  it  for  hope.    And  Nature,  deeply  moved,  swore  t<\ 
them  that  they  should  never  die. 

The  potent  originality  of  this  great  popular  conception  is  that 
thus  for  the  first  time,  the  human  soul  and  earth  and  heaven 
associated  their  triple  drama  with  the  outline  of  the  year.  The 
year  dies  only  to  rise  again.  Love  caught  at  this  idea,  and  be- 
lieved in  the  eternal  renaissance  and  resurrection  of  the  soul. 

When  I  see  among  the  mountains  some  peak  of  basalt,  which 
has  pierced  the  superincumbent  strata,  and  overlooks  all  other 
summits,  I  ask  myself  from  what  profound  depths,  and  by 
what  enormous  force,  has  this  giant  arisen  ?  The  religion  of 
Egypt  fills  me  with  just  that  astonishment :  From  what 
depths  did  it  spring,  of  physical  tenderness  and  love  and  grief? 
The  abysses  of  nature ! 

In  the  universal  mother,  Night,  were  conceived  before  all 
time,  a  daughter  and  a  son,  Isis  and  Osiris,  who  already  loved 
each  other  in  the  womb,  and  who  were  so  utterly  one  that  Isis 
became  pregnant.  Even  before  she  was,  she  was  a  mother  ; 
for  she  bore  a  son,  who  was  called  Horus,  but  who  was  no 
other  than  his  father — another  Osiris  of  goodness,  and  beau- 
ty, and  light.  Then  the  three  were  born — a  wonder !  mother, 
father,  son,  same  age,  same  love,  same  heart. 

How  beautiful !  behold  them  at  the  altar — woman,  man,  and 
child — persons  mark  you,  and  living  beings.  Not  the  fantastic 
trinity  by  which  India  united  in  a  discordant  marriage  three 
ancient  religions.  Not  the  scholastic  trinity  by  which  Byzan- 
tian  subtlety  argued  its  metaphysics.  But  life,  and  nothing 
more  ;  from  that  burning  ray  of  nature  flashed  the  triple  hu- 
man unity. 

Oh,  until  then,  how  fierce  and  terrible  were  the  gods !  The 
Indian  Siva  keeps  his  eyes  closed,  lest  the  world  should  perish 
under  his  devouring  glance.  The  God  of  the  pure,  the  Fire 
of  the  Persians,  hungers  for  all  that  exists.  But  here  nature 
herself  is  on  the  altar,  under  the  sweet  aspect  of  Family, 
blessing  creation  with  a  mother's  eye  ;  for  the  great  god  is  a 


196         Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness. 

mother.  How  does  this  reassure  me  !  I  had  feared  that  the 
black  race,  governed  too  much  by  the  beast,  impressed  in  its 
infancy  with  terrific  images  of  the  lion  and  the  crocodile, 
would  produce  only  monsters.  But  thus  is  it  softened,  hu- 
manized, made  feminine.  The  loving  African,  in  his  profound 
desire,  has  exalted  the  most  touching  object  of  all  earthly 
religions.  What  ?  That  living  reality,  a  good  and  faithful 
woman. 

Most  ardent  this,  but  so  pure!  Ardent,  as  we  compare 
it  with  cold,  ontological  dogmas.  Pure,  as  we  contrast  it 
with  modern  refinements,  with  our  faint  conceptions,  our  pious 
corruptions,  our  world  of  equivocations. 

All  innocent,  the  joy  bursts  forth.  Immense  and  popular, 
the  joy  of  exhausted  Africa — a  deluge  of  water,  a  prodigious 
sea  of  sweet  water,  comes.  I  know  not  whence,  but  over- 
flowing the  land,  deluging  it  with  happiness,  infiltrating  and 
insinuating  itself  into  the  least  of  its  veins,  so  that  not  one 
grain  of  sand  shall  complain  that  it  is  thirsty.  The  little  dried- 
up  canals  smile,  as  the  babbling  water  visits  them  with  refresh- 
ment. The  drooping  plant  laughs  with  all  its  heart,  as  the 
welcome  wave  moistens  its  root,  and  takes  possession  of  its 
stalk,  and  mounts  upward  to  its  leaves,  and  hangs  upon  the 
stem,  which  gently  sighs — the  whole  a  charming  spectacle,  and 
one  wide  scene  of  love  and  pure  delight,  for  the  great  Isis  is 
inundating  her  well  beloved. 

The  good  Osiris  works  and  works.  He  created  Egypt  herself, 
and  the  land  is  his  child.  He  made  the  worship  of  Egypt,  and 
he  engendered  in  her  the  arts,  without  which  she  would 
have  perished. 

But  nothing  lasts.  The  gods  hav€»  disappeared.  The  living 
Sun  of  goodness,  which  planted  in  the  bosom  of  Isis  all  the 
fruits,  and  everything  that  was  salutary,  could  of  himself  cre- 
ate all  things  except  time  and  duration.  One  morning  he 
was  gone.  O,  void,  immense !  where  is  he  ?  Isis,  distracted, 
searches  for  him. 


Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness.         197 

The  sombre  doctrine  spread  throughout  all  western  Asia, 
that  even  the  gods  must  die ;  but  that  dogma  of  Syria  and 
Asia  Minor,  and  the  isles,  could  not  even  approach,  it  seems, 
this  robust  Africa,  which  has  so  vivid  and  so  ever-present  a 
sentiment  of  life. 

But  why  deny  it  ?  For  everything  dies.  The  Father  of 
Life,  old  Nile  himself,  is  exhausted  and  dried  up.  At  certain 
times  the  Sun  is  no  longer  himself,  but,  dejected  and  pale,  has 
lost  his  rays.  Osiris,  life,  goodness  die  together,  and  by  a  bar- 
barous death,  his  limbs  all  scattered.  His  weeping  wife  finds 
his  remains ;  but  one  part  is  wanting,  and  she  seeks  that,  tearing 
her  hair.  "  Alas  !  that  part  is  Life  itself,  the  energy  of  Life, 
the  sacred  power  of  Life  !  If  you  are  wanting,  what  shall  be- 
come of  the  world  ?  Where  may  you  be  found  again  ?  "  She 
implores  the  Nile,  she  cries  to  Egypt.  But  Egypt  takes  care 
not  to  give  up  her  assurance  of  perpetual  fertility. 

Yet,  so  great  a  grief  well  deserved  a  miracle  ;  and  in  that 
fierce  combat  of  tenderness  and  death,  Osiris,  all  dismembered 
as  he  is,  and  cruelly  mutilated,  resuscitated  by  an  omnipotent 
will,  returns  to  her.  And  so  great  is  the  love  of  the  dead, 
that,  by  the  magic  of  the  heart,  he  finds  a  last  desire. 

He  has  returned  from  the  tomb  only  to  make  her  a  mother 
again.  And,  ah,  how  eagerly  does  she  receive  the  embrace! 
But  it  is  only  an  adieu,  and  the  glowing  bosom  of  Isis  will 
never  warm  that  icy  germ.  What  of  that  ?  The  fruit  it  bears, 
sad  and  pale  though  it  be,  proclaims  no  less  the  supreme  victory 
of  love,  which  was  fruitful  before  life,  and  is  fruitful  after  it. 

Interpreters  of  this  legend  ascribe  to  it  a  significance  of 
astronomical  symbolism ;  and,  certainly,  the  coincidence  of 
the  destiny  of  man  with  the  course  of  the  year,  the  decline 
of  the  sun,  etc.,  has  been  recognised  from  the  earliest  times. 
But  all  this  is  secondary,  and  of  later  observation.  Its  primal 
origin  was  in  humanity,  the  actual  wound  of  the  bereaved 
widow  of  Egypt,  and  her  inconsolable  grief. 

On  the  other  hand,  let  not  the  African  and  material  coloring 


198         Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness. 

deceive  you.  Here,  truly,  is  something  more  than  regret  for 
physical  joys,  and  unsatisfied  desire.  In  such  suffering  doubt- 
less nature  demands  something.  But  Isis  did  not  desire  merely 
a  man ;  she  longed  for  him  whom  alone  she  loved,  her  own 
and  not  another — the  same,  always  the  same.  The  sentiment 
is  entirely  exclusive,  and  entirely  individual.  We  perceive  it 
in  the  infinite  care  bestowed  upon  the  body,  so  that  not  a 
single  atom  shall  be  lost,  so  that  death  may  change  no  part 
of  it,  but  one  day  shall  restore,  in  its  wholeness,  this  sole  object 
of  love. 

"  I  long  for  him  who  was  mine,  who  was  myself,  and  my 
completeness.  I  desire  him,  and  he  shall  live  again.  The  beetle 
reappears,  and  the  phoenix ;  the  sun,  the  year  return.  And 
so  I  long  for  him,  and  he  shall  arise  again.  Am  I  not  life  and 
eternal  nature  ?  Though  he  disappear  some  day,  he  will 
certainly  return  to  me.  I  feel  him,  I  carry  him  within  myself. 
In  myself  I  had  him  before  I  was.  I  tell  you  I  was  his  sister 
and  his  lover ;  but  I  was  his  mother  also. 

Simple  and  profound  truth ;  and  thus  under  a  mythological 
form  the  triple  mystery  of  love  is  expressed  for  the  first  time. 
The  wife  is  a  true  sister  to  the  man  in  the  labors  of  life — more 
than  sister,  and  more  than  wife,  to  console  him,  and  to  rest  his 
weary  head  at  night.  She  comforts  his  fatigue  ;  a  nurse,  she 
lulls  him  to  sleep,  and  taking  him  again  into  her  bosom,  brings 
him  forth  with  renewed  life,  forgetful  of  all  things,  and  rejuve- 
nated for  the  joyous  waking  of  the  morn.  Such  is  the  power 
of  marriage,  but  not  of  transient  pleasure.  The  longer  it  lasts 
the  more  is  the  wife  a  mother  to  the  husband,  the  more  is  he 
her  son. 

It  is  their  guaranty  of  immortality.  United  thus,  who  shall 
disunite  them  ?  Isis  contained  Osiris,  and  so  inclosed  him  in  her 
maternal  tenderness,  that  all  separation  was  but  a  phantasy. 

In  this  legend,  so  tender,  so  pure,  so  simple,  there  is  a  mar- 
vellous intimation  of  immortality,  never  surpassed.  Be  hope- 
ful, all  afflicted  hearts,  forlorn  widows,  and  little  orphans! 


Woman  the  Goddess  of  Goodness.         199 

you  weep;  but  Isis  also  weeps,  and  she  does  not  despair. 
Osiris,  dead,  yet  lives,  continually  renewed  in  his  innocent 
Apis.  Down  there,  he  is  a  shepherd  of  souls,  a  gentle  guardian 
of  the  world  of  shades,  and  your  dead  one  is  near  him.  Fear 
not !  all  is  well.  One  day  he  will  return  to  claim  his  body  from 
you.  Envekpe  with  care  those  precious  remains.  Embalm 
them  with  perfumes,  with  prayers,  and  with  burning  tears. 
Preserve  them  very  near  you.  O  happy  day,  when  the  Father 
of  souls,  issuing  from  his  gloomy  realms,  shall  restore  to  you 
your  beloved,  shall  join  him  to  his  body  again,  and  say;  I 
have  taken  care  of  him  for  you. 

The  eternity  of  the  soul — not  vague  and  impersonal,  as  in 
the  creed  of  Asia — but  the  individual  soul,  consecrated  and 
eternalized  in  love,  the  imperishable  permanence  of  the  adored 
one,  the  tender  goodness  of  God  held  fast  by  the  tears  of  a 
woman  and  pledged  to  restore — this  sublime  blessing  is  the 
boon  of  all,  and  henceforth  shall  never  pass  away. 

God  has  promised  only  for  the  good ;  he  will  separate 
them  from  the  wicked.  In  this,  for  the  first  time,  we 
clearly  apprehend  the  Judgment  and  divine  justice.  Wait- 
ing, let  us  labor,  let  us  build  with  eternal  materials,  let  us  per- 
petuate our  memories,  let  us  address  ourselves  to  future  ages 
in  the  language  of  marble  and  granite.  All  Egypt  is  as  a 
book  to  which  all  the  wise  may  come,  one  by  one,  to  learn. 

Consequently,  all  nations  imitate  her,  and  become  emulous 
of  immortality.  They  heap  up,  and  they  accumulate.  Each 
day  enriches  the  inheritance  of  the  human  race. 

Thus  by  a  moral  of  art,  of  labor,  of  immortality,  this 
adorable  legend  fertilizes  the  whole  earth. 


2oo  How  Woman  excels  Man. 


XL 


HOW    WOMAN    EXCELS    MAN. 

THE  true  happiness  of  the  teacher  is  in  finding  himself 
surpassed  by  his  pupil.  Woman,  constantly  cultivated  by 
man,  and  enriched  by  his  thought,  soon  believes ;  and  some 
morning  she  finds  herself  superior  to  him. 

She  becomes  superior  to  him,  as  well  by  these  new  elements 
as  by  her  personal  gifts,  which  without  the  inspirations  she 
derives  from  man  would  scarcely  have  come  to  light.  Melo- 
dious aspirations,  and  sensibility  to  nature,  these  were  in  her ; 
but  they  have  flourished  by  love.  Add  one  gift  (so  high,  that 
it  is  the  all  in  all,  that  which  chiefly  distinguishes  our  race 
from  others)  :  a  true  and  charming  womanly  heart,  opulent 
with  compassion,  with  knowledge  to  console  all,  the  divinations 
of  pity. 

She  is  docile,  she  is  modest,  she  is  unconscious  of  her  splen- 
dor ;  but  at  every  moment  it  blazes  forth. 

You  take  her  to  the  Jardin  des  Plantes,  and  she  dreams 
there  of  Alps,  and  virgin  forests  of  America.  You  take  her 
to  the  galleries  of  pictures,  and  she  dreams  of  the  time  when 
there  will  no  longer  be  museums,  when  whole  cities  shall  be 
galleries,  and  have  their  walls  painted  like  the  Campo- Santo. 
At  the  labored  concerts  of  artists,  she  thinks  of  the  concerts 
of  the  people  which  shall  be  hereafter — -grand  confederations 
wherein  the  souls  of  all  the  human  race  will  be  united  in  a 
final  harmony  of  universal  friendship. 

You  are  strong ;  she  is  divine — a  daughter  and  a  sister  of 
nature.  She  leans  upon  your  arm,  and  yet  she  has  wings. 
She  is  feeble,  she  is  in  pain ;  and  it  is  just  when  her  beautiful 
languishing  eyes  bear  witness  that  she  suflers,  that  the  dear 
sibyl  soars  to  lofty  heights  and  inaccessible  summits.  Whc 
knows  how  she  mounts  thither  ? 


How  Woman  excels  Man.  201 

Your  tenderness  has  done  much  towards  that.  If  she  has 
this  power,  if  as  woman  and  mother,  united  with  man,  she 
possesses  in  the  midst  of  marriage  the  sibylline  virginity,  it  is 
because  your  anxious  love,  surrounding  the  dear  treasure,  has 
divided  and  distributed  your  life, — for  you,  hard  labor  and 
the  rude  contacts  of  the  world — for  her,  peace  and  love,  ma- 
ternity, art,  and  all  the  tender  cares  of  domesticity. 

How  weU  you  have  done !  and  how  grateful  am  I  for  it ! 
Oh !  woman,  fragile  globe  of  incomparable  alabaster,  wherein 
burns  the  lamp  of  God,  one  must  care  for  thee  well,  bear  thee 
with  a  pious  hand,  and  guard  thee  closely  in  the  warmth  of 
his  bosom. 

It  is  by  sharing  with  her  the  miseries  of  the  special  labor 
with  which  your  days  are  occupied,  dear  workman,  that  you 
will  preserve  her  in  the  nobleness  which  only  children  and 
women  have — that  amiable  aristocracy  of  the  human  race. 
She  is  your  nobleness,  your  own,  to  raise  you  above  yourself. 
When  you  return  from  the  forge,  panting,  fatigued  with  labor, 
she,  young  and  fresh,  pours  over  you  her  youth,  brings  the 
sacred  wave  of  life  to  you,  and  makes  you  a  god  again,  with 
a  kiss.  With  so  divine  an  object  near  you,  you  will  not  blindly 
follow  the  temptations  which  allure  you  from  your  rugged  arid 
narrow  path.  You  will  each  moment  feel  the  happy  necessity 
of  elevating  and  extending  your  conceptions,  in  order  to  fol- 
low your  dear  pupil  whither  you  have  elevated  her.  Your 
young  friend,  your  scholar,  as  she  modestly  calls  herself,  will 
not  permit  you,  O  master,  to  shut  yourself  up  in  your  avoca- 
tion. She  beseeches  you  every  moment  to  come  out  from  it, 
and  aid  her  to  remain  in  harmony  with  all  that  is  noble  and 
beautiful.  To  suffice  for  the  humble  needs  of  your  little  com- 
rade, you  will  be  forced  to  be  great. 

She  is  practical,  and  she  is  spiritual ;  she  has  the  most  oc- 
taves, above  and  below.  She  is  a  lyre  of  ampler  range  than 
you, — but  not  complete,  for  she  is  not  very  strong  in  the 
middle  chords. 

9* 


202  How  Woman  excels  Man. 

She  reaches  into  the  details  of  matters  which  escape  us. 
And  on  the  other  hand,  at  certain  times,  she  sees  over  our 
heads,  pierces  the  future,  the  invisible,  and  penetrates  through 
the  body  into  the  world  of  spirits. 

But  the  practical  faculty  she  has  for  small  things,  and  the 
prophetic  faculty  that  sometimes  leads  to  great,  have  rarely  a 
medium,  strong,  calm,  and  melodious,  whereby  she  can  fall 
back  upon  herself,  and  fecundate  herself.  For  the  most  part, 
she  alternates  rapidly  without  change,  according  to  the 
month.  Now  her  poetry  declines  to  prose,  then  her  prose 
rises  to  poetry,  often  by  fierce  storms,  by  sudden  gusts  of  the 
mistral,  like  the  climate  of  Provence. 

An  illustrious  reasoner  laughs  at  these  prophetic  powers, 
and  denies  them,  incontestable  as  they  are.  In  the  effort  to 
depreciate  them,  he  seems  to  confound  the  spontaneous  inspi- 
rations of  the  woman  with  somnambulism,  a  sickly,  dangerous 
state,  a  nervous  debility,  often  caused  by  the  arrogance  of  the 
man.  He  asks  what  we  can  do  with  a  faculty  so  uncertain, 
"  besides  being  physical  and  inevitable." 

I  know  that  inspiration,  even  the  most  spontaneous,  is  not 
entirely  free.  It  is  always  mingled  and  marked  with  a  measure 
of  fatality.  If  for  that  you  would  degrade  it,  you  must  con- 
tend that  eminent  artists  are  not  men.  You  must  class  with 
the  women  Rembrandt,  Mozart  and  Correggio,  Beethoven, 
Dante,  Shakspeare,  Pascal,  all  the  great  writers.  Is  it  abso- 
lutely certain  that  even  those  who  believe  hi  relying  exclu- 
sively on  logic,  never  yield  to  this  feminine  power  of  inspira- 
tion ?  I  find  traces  of  it  even  among  the  closest  reasoners. 
Let  them  become  ever  so  little  artistic,  and  they  unwittingly 
fall  under  the  wand  of  the  fairy. 

We  cannot  say  (like  Proudhon)  that  woman  is  only  recep- 
tive.    She  is  productive  by  her  influence  upon  man,  both  in 
the  ideal,  and  in  the  real.     But  her  thought  seldom  attains  a 
Btrong  reality ;  and  that  is  why  she  has  created  so  little. 
The  political  world  is  generally  almost  inaccessible  to  her. 


How  Woman  excels  Man.  203 

A  generative  and  essentially  masculine  spirit  is  necessary  to 
it.  But  she  has  the  sense  of  order,  and  is  well  fitted  for  ad- 
ministration. 

The  great  creations  of  art  seem  even  now  impossible  to 
her.  Every  noble  work  of  civilization  is  a  product  of  the 
genius  of  man. 

All  this  has  been  made,  very  foolishly,  a  question  of  self- 
ove.  The  man  and  the  woman  are  two  relative  and  incom- 
plete beings,  only  two  halves  of  a  whole.  They  should  love 
and  respect  each  other. 

She  is  relative :  therefore  she  should  respect  the  man,  who 
creates  everything  for  her.  She  has  no  support,  no  happiness, 
no  wealth  which  does  not  come  from  him. 

He  is  relative  :  therefore  he  ought  to  respect,  to  adore  the 
woman,  who  creates  the  man,  and  the  pleasure  of  man,  who 
by  the  magic  of  eternal  desire  has  drawn  from  him,  from  age 
to  age,  those  jets  of  flame  which  are  called  arts  and  civiliza- 
tions. She  renews  him  every  evening,  bestowing  by  turns 
the  two  graces  of  life : — in  soothing  him,  which  is  harmony, 
in  putting  him  off,  which  is  the  spark.  She  has  thus  created 
the  creator,  and  that  is  all  he  is. 

I  do  not  upbraid  woman  for  not  producing  things  for  which 
she  was  not  made.  I  only  accuse  her  of  feeling  too  exclusively, 
sometimes,  her  proud  and  charming  ascendancy,  and  of  not 
taking  into  account  the  world  of  creation — the  productive 
sense  of  man,  the  fruitful  energy,  the  prodigious  effort  of  the 
great  workman.  She  does  not  even  suspect  their  existence. 

She  is  beauty,  and  loves  only  the  beautiful,  but  without 
effort — the  beautiful  ready  made.  There  is  another  beauty 
of  which  she  can  scarcely  conceive,  that  of  action,  of  heroic 
toil,  which  has  even  made  that  beautiful  thing,  but  is  more 
beautiful  itself,  and  often  even  sublime. 

A  thousand  pities  for  the  poor  creator — to  see  that  in  ad- 
miring the  effect,  the  con  pleted  work,  she  does  not  admire 
the  cause,  but  often  despises  it  I  that  it  should  be  precisely 


204  How  Woman  excels  Man. 

the  effort  he  makes  for  her  that  kills  her  heart  out,  and  that 
by  deserving  more  he  begins  to  please  her  less. 

"  Let  me  do  what  I  may,  I  do  not  attach  her  to  me.  She 
has  been  mine  this  long  time,  and  yet  I  shall  never  truly  pos- 
sess her." 

Such  was  the  rather  singular  remark  that  a  man  of  true 
merit,  of  a  loving  and  faithful  heart,  always  in  love  with  his 
wife,  made  to  me  one  day.  She,  brilliant,  but  good  and  true, 
complaisant  and  amiable  towards  him,  could  be  the  object  of 
no  serious  reproach.  She  had  no  faults,  but  her  superiority  and 
her  ever  increasing  distinction.  He  felt,  not  without  sorrow, 
that  she,  his  darling  idol,  was  no  longer  wrapped  up  in  him  as 
at  first ;  and  that,  in  spite  of  his  devotion,  she  soared  into  a 
sphere  independent  of  that  in  which  he  had  concentrated  his 
energies. 

These  words  perfectly  explain  the  types  I  have  set  up  in  my 
chapters  on  education:  "The  modern  man  is  essentially  a 
worker,  a  producer ;  the  woman  a  harmony." 

The  more  the  man  becomes  creative,  the  more  striking  the 
contrast.  It  explains  much  of  that  coolness,  which  we  should 
be  wrong  to  regard  as  fickleness,  ennui,  satiety — a  coolness 
which  is  not  always  because  the  pair  are  wearied  with  finding 
each  other  ever  the  same,  with  never  changing — but  on  the 
contrary,  because  they  have  changed,  and  progressed  and 
ascended.  This  progress,  which  should  be  a  new  reason  for 
loving  each  other,  is  nevertheless  the  cause,  that  finding  no 
longer  their  old  points  of  union,  they  have  but  little  influence 
over  each  other,  and  despair  of  regaining  it. 

Will  they  continue  thus  coldly  apart,  indifferent,  united 
only  by  interests  ?  No,  the  danger  increases ;  the  heart  will 
play  its  part  elsewhere.  For  in  France,  the  heart  is  very 
absolute,  it  demands  the  closest  union,  or  another  love.  It 
says,  "  all  or  nothing.'' 

Indulge  me  in  a  paradox.  I  r  aintain  that  in  spite  of  the 
reckless  gaiety  universally  feigned,  our  period  is  that  in  which 


How  Woman  excels  Man.  205 

love  is  the  most  exacting,  most  insatiate.  If  it  takes  hold 
upon  an  object,  it  aspires  to  penetrate  it  to  its  lowest  depth. 
Extremely  cultivated,  provided  with  so  many  new  ideas,  and 
new  arts,  which  are  as  so  many  senses  by  which  passion 
is  tasted,  however  little  we  may  have  in  us,  we  are  sensible 
of  that  by  a  thousand  touches,  to  which  our  ancestors  were 
insensible. 

But  it  too  often  happens  that  the  beloved  object  escapes : 
perhaps  from  want  of  consistency,  the  true  feminine  fluidity — 
perhaps  by  brilliant  transformations  and  the  acquisition  of  dis- 
tinctions— perhaps,  indeed,  by  friendships,  those  secondary 
relations  which  divide  the  heart  and  weaken  it. 

The  man  is  humiliated,  discouraged ;  very  often  he  perceives 
the  sad  consequences  of  this  in  his  art,  and  in  his  energy,  and 
depreciates  himself  on  account  of  it.  Then,  oftener  than  one 
would  suppose,  a  passionate  egotism  reanimates  and  exalts  his 
love.  He  longs  to  regain,  to  repossess  his  dear  creature, 
who  sometimes,  without  irony,  but  with  proud  coldness,  says 
smiling :  "  Do  what  you  can.'' 

"  Ter  totum  fervidus  ira,  lustrat  Aventini  montem,  ter 
saxea  tentat  limina  nequicquam,  ter  fessus  valle  resedit." 

Three  times,  ardent,  he  makes  the  circuit  of  the  mountain, 
three  times  shakes  the  cold  rampart  of  stone,  three  times  falls, 
and  sits  down  in  the  valley. 

The  difficulty,  the  mysterious  negative  influence,  the  inva- 
lidating impediment,  comes  almost  always  from  outside.  But 
it  is  not  invariably  found  in  an  enemy ;  it  may  be  a  mother, 
a  sister,  or  a  drawing-room  friend,  for  aught  I  know.  The 
most  honorable  cause  has  sometimes  such  effects.  Incleed,  a 
vehement  friendship,  turning  aside  the  strength  of  love,  some- 
times suffices  to  disturb  the  harmony  of  marriage. 

I  knew  two  accomplished  ladies  united  in  a  close  friendship. 
One,  only,  was  married.  The  other  remained  unmarried,  in 
order  to  devote  herself  entirely  to  this  attachment.  The 
husband,  a  man  of  genius,  a  brilliant,  fascinating  writer,  had 


206  How  Woman  excels  Man. 

evinced  remarkable  talent.  The  important  question  was, 
would  his  gift  from  the  fairies  become  permanent  ?  would  it 
be  strengthened  ?  He  felt  his  inspiration  by  intervals — I  was 
about  to  say,  by  chance.  Then,  his  work  eclipsed  everything. 
What  would  he  not  have  performed,  if  the  strange  spark  had 
been  blessed  and  watched  over  by  love  ? 

She  was  extremely  beautiful,  and  her  heart  more  lovely  still. 
She  had  an  elevated,  but  very  serious,  moral  nature,  which 
made  her  slightly  sensible  of  these  capricious  gleams ;  and  to 
confirm  her  in  that,  she  had  the  friendship,  the  adoration,  of  a 
woman,  herself  adorable.  Against  this  couple,  so  united  and 
so  perfect,  could  the  husband  hold  his  own  ?  A  third  person 
was  de  trap  there.  His  fine  but  wavering  qualities,  mingled 
with  the  sensitive  defects  which  sometimes  are  attached  to 
genius  in  decline,  hardly  coincided  with  the  straight  line  which 
they  applied  to  them.  The  two  friends,  virtuous,  pure,  and 
transparent  as  the  light  of  noontide,  indifferently  relished  his 
uncertain  and  sensuous  graces,  his  transient  twilight. 

His  uncertainty  increased.  He  was  very  gravely  wronged 
by  not  being  believed  in.  His  friends  had  faith  in  him,  and 
called  on  him  to  make  good  his  promise;  but  nothing  can 
take  the  place  of  the  internal  support.  The  wife  is  the  grand 
umpire,  and  the  sovereign  judge.  He  would  have  succeeded 
better,  perhaps,  with  an  inferior  woman.  She,  by  her  noble 
beauty,  by  her  open  purity,  by  her  estimable  talents,  com- 
manded too  much  respect.  Such  excessive  perfection  affords 
but  little  chance  of  appeal  against  its  judgments — judgments 
always  benevolent,  but  frank. 

This  singular  and  charming  man  could  do  nothing  save 
blindly.  He  needed  a  beloved  hand  to  bandage  his  eyes,  and 
complete  the  blindness,  which  rendered  him  productive.  On 
the  contrary,  he  lived  with  judicious  reflection  ever  at  his 
side.  Solitary  in  the  inspired  moment,  he  yielded  to  the  pru- 
dence which  checks  inspiration,  and  so  he  fell  short  of  his 
mark,  and  missed  his  aim. 


How  Woman  excels  Man.  207 

Will  the  women  permit  me  to  interpose  a  wjrd  here? 
They  have  more  delicate  ears,  they  will  hear  better :  besides 
they  have  more  time,  for  the  most  part.  Man,  that  fanatic 
of  toil,  intoxicated  with  enthusiasm  and  struggle,  will  not 
hearken  to  me. 

Madam,  be  not  perfect ;  keep  faults  enough  to  console  a 
man ;  nature  intended  him  to  be  proud.  It  is  essential  to 
your  interest,  and  to  that  of  your  family,  that  he  should  be 
so,  that  he  should  think  himself  strong 

When  you  see  him  dejected,  sad,  discouraged,  the  best 
remedy  is  to  be  downcast  yourself,  to  be  more  a  woman,  and 
younger — even  a  child,  if  need  be. 

And  my  second  maxim : — Madam,  do  not  divide  your 
heart. 

I  will  tell  you  what  I  saw  at  Hyeres  in  Provence,  in  a  de- 
lightful garden.  It  was  planted  with  handsome  orange  trees, 
at  suitable  distances,  and  in  the  best  exposure. ;  they  had  no- 
thing to  complain  of;  in  a  country  where  the  people  like  to 
mingle  different  kinds,  they  had  refrained  from  planting 
between  these  orange  trees,  any  plant,  or  tree,  or  vine,  which 
could  injure  them.  Only  some  borders  of  strawberries  were 
along  the  walks — excellent,  delicious,  fragrant  strawberries. 
As  we  all  know,  these  have  but  little  root ;  so  they  spread  on 
the  surface  and  extend,  without  penetrating,  their  small  and 
delicate  fibres.  Yet  the  orange  trees  drooped  and  fell  into 
sickliness.  The  gardeners  were  troubled ;  what  could  be  the 
matter  ?  They  had  sacrificed  everything.  They  never  sus- 
pected that  the  innocent  strawberry  vines  could  be  the  cause 
of  all.  But  if  those  robust  trees  had  been  consulted,  they 
would  have  confessed  that  their  prostration  came  from  that 
small  enemy.  They  did  not  complain — they  only  died. 

At  Cannes,  not  far  off,  they  know  that  the  orange  tree  is 
vigorous  only  when  solitary.  So  they  not  only  allow  it  no 
companion,  small  or  great,  but  before  planting  it  they  dig  the 
ground  to  the  depth  of  eight  feet ;  they  dig  it  three  times 


208    The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession. 

over,  to  be  sure  that  it  is  clean  and  free,  that  it  contains  no 
forgotten  root,  no  living  herb,  which  might  claim  its  share  of 
the  sap. 

The  orange  tree  desires  to  be  alone,  Madam — and  so  does 
love. 


XII. 

THE    HUMILIATIONS    OF    LOVE CONFESSION. 

LOVE  is  a  very  diverse  thing,  in  kind  and  in  degree.  It 
differs  very  much  in  different  nations. 

The  French  woman  is  an  admirable  partner  for  her  husband, 
in  business,  and  even  in  ideas.  If  he  does  not  employ  her,  it 
is  possible  that  she  may  forget  him.  But  let  him  fall  into 
difficulties,  and  at  once  she  recollects  that  she  loves  him,  de- 
votes herself  to  him,  and  sometimes  (as  in  '93)  dies  for  him. 

The  English  woman  is  a  reliable  wife,  courageous,  indefa- 
tigable, who  follows  anywhere,  and  suffers  everything.  At 
the  first  sign  she  is  ready.  "  Lucy,  to-day  I  set  out  for  Aus- 
tralia." "  Well,  only  give  me  time,  dear,  to  put  on  my  bon- 
net." 

The  German  woman  loves,  and  loves  always.  She  is  hum- 
ble, obedient,  and  would  like  to  obey  still  more.  She  is  fitted 
for  only  one  thing,  love — but  that  is  boundless. 

With  the  German  woman  you  can  easily  change  expedients, 
and  if  the  one  you  have  is  bad,  emigrate  to  the  ends  of  the 
earth.  With  the  German  woman  you  may  live  all  alone,  at 
a  retired  country-seat,  in  profound  solitude.  The  French 
woman  is  capable  of  that,  only  provided  she  is  occupied,  and 
you  have  known  how  to  create  for  her  a  great  activity  of 
mind.  Her  strong  personality  is  much  more  embarrassing, 


The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession.    209 

but  it  renders  her  capable  of  going  far  in  a  sacrifice,  e^  en  to 
the  extent  of  immolating  her  vanity,  and  her  craving  for  dis- 
play. 

Stendhal,  an  ultra  Frenchman,  strongly  opposed  to  Ger- 
many, and  ridiculing  it  every  moment,  makes  this  just 
remark:  "The  best  marriages  are  those  of  Protestant  Ger- 
many." 

He  saw  Germany  in  1810, 1  saw  it  in  1830 — and  often  since. 
Things  have  changed  in  the  higher  classes,  and  in  some  of  the 
large  cities,  but  not  throughout  the  country ;  there  is  every- 
where the  humble  obedient  wife,  anxious  to  obey — in  a  word, 
the  loving  woman. 

True  love,  profound  love,  is  recognised  by  this,  that  it  kills 
all  other  passions :  pride,  ambition,  coquetry,  all  are  lost  in  it, 
all  disappear. 

It  is  so  far  from  pride,  that  it  often  runs  into  the  other  ex- 
treme, and  ranges  itself  on  the  opposite  pole.  Anxious  to  be 
absorbed,  it  goes  far  out  of  itself,  very  easily  forgets  what  is 
called  dignity,  and  without  hesitation  sacrifices  the  graceful 
appearances  intended  for  the  public.  It  conceals  no  bad  quali- 
ties, but  sometimes  exaggerates  them — aspiring  to  please  by 
no  merit,  but  by  excess  of  love. 

Lover  and  mystic  are  herein  completely  blended.  In  both 
the  humility  is  excessive — a  desire  to  abase  themselves,  so 
much  the  more  to  exalt  their  god ;  whether  it  be  a  beloved 
woman,  or  a  favorite  saint,  the  effect  is  the  same.  I  forget 
which  devotee  it  was  who  said :  "  If  I  could  only  have  been 
the  dog  of  St.  Pauline."  More  than  once  have  I  heard  a  lover 
say  the  same  thing :  "  If  I  were  only  her  dog !  " 

But  such  disparagements  of  the  soul,  such  excesses  of 
humility,  love  should  not  indulge  in.  Its  effort,  on  the  con- 
trary, should  be  to  elevate  her  who  loves,  at  least  to  hold  her 
up  to  the  man's  level,  to  cultivate  a  union  by  that  which  binds 
her  fast,  which  alone  renders  her  real — equality.  When  two 
souls  are  so  disproportionate  no  interchange,  no  blending  can 


21O     The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession. 

be  possible.  You  cannot  harmonize  everything  and  nothing. 
This  is  the  torment  which  Colonel  Selves  (Soliman  Pacha) 
did  not  hesitate  to  acknowledge.  "  How,"  said  he,  "  can  you 
know  that  an  oriental  woman  loves  you  ?"  We  who  have  the 
happiness  to  possess  in  our  European  women  souls  and  wills, 
whatever  embarrassment  these  wills  may  at  times  cause  us, 
ought  yet  to  avoid  whatever  may  shatter  them,  and  break  the 
mainspring  of  the  soul.  Two  things,  especially,  are  infinitely 
dangerous  to  them : 

The  first — by  which  imprudent  women  of  the  present  day 
are  very  much  abused — is  the  magnetic  power.  Their  unfor- 
tunate facility  of  submitting  to  it  is  a  real  disease,  which  per- 
manently injures  them,  and  is  aggravated  by  cultivation.  This 
peril  should  not  exist ;  it  is  disgraceful  to  see  a  man  who  is  not 
beloved,  and  who  has  no  power  over  her  heart,  assume  an  un- 
limited power  over  the  will  of  a  woman.  She  becomes  his 
slave — compelled  to  move  at  his  sign,  or  disclose  before 
witnesses  the  most  humiliating  secrets.  She  follows  him 
fatally.  Why  ?  She  cannot  tell ;  he  is  her  superior  neither 
in  talent  nor  energy;  but  she  surrenders  herself,  under  pretext 
of  medical  treatment,  or  for  the  amusement  of  society — and 
behold  her  abandoned  to  a  thousand  unknown  chances.  Have 
these  victims  the  true  medical  inspiration?  time  will  show. 
But  whatever  it  be,  the  gift  is  dearly  paid  for,  since  it  creates 
an  invalid,  a  humiliated  invalid,  who  parts  with  the  disposi- 
tion of  her  own  will.  Even  he  whom  she  loves,  her  lover  or 
her  husband,  if  she  beseeches  him  to  assume  this  power  over 
her,  ought  to  consider  well  before  he  does  so.  Instead  of 
evoking  from  her  this  passive  slavery,  this  obscure  inspiration, 
he  should  associate  her  with  the  active  faculties,  which  are 
those  of  liberty,  and  should  exercise  over  her  only  one  kind 
of  attraction — open  love. 

Another  power  which  every  generous  man  will  beware  of 
exercising,  is  that  of  violence — the  fascination  of  fear. 

Women  throughout  Asia  (I  might  almost  say  throughout 


The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession.    211 

the  world)  are  treated  like  children.  But  we  should  consider 
that,  except  in  Europe,  they  are  married  while  children — in 
the  warm  countries  at  twelve,  at  ten,  and  sometimes  in  India 
even  at  eight  years  of  age.  The  husband  of  a  child  of  eight 
years  is  obliged  to  be  her  father,  in  some  sort  her  master,  in 
order  to  educate  her.  Hence  that  apparent  contradiction  in 
the  Indian  laws,  which  in  one  part  of  the  country  prohibit  the 
striking  of  wives,  and  elsewhere  permit  them  to  be  corrected 
"like  small  scholars."  They  are  always  children,  and  this 
childish  discipline  (not  servile  nor  violent)  they  patiently  sub- 
mit to.  Where  polygamy  is  practised,  they  remain  timid  and 
sensual,  and  are  held  somewhat  by  fear,  receiving  in  just  the 
same  degree  caresses  and  correction. 

Our  women  of  the  North,  on  the  contrary,  marriageable 
later  in  life,  are  quite  mature,  and  in  no  wise  children  when 
they  are  married.  To  treat  them  as  children  would  be  the 
most  shocking  abuse  of  power,  and  let  us  add,  the  most 
dangerous.  It  is  generally  found  that  the  seasons  when  their 
vexatious  humor  provokes  the  brutality  of  man,  are  those  in 
which  they  are  most  easily  injured,  when  any  violent  emotion 
would  be  dangerous.  They  have  their  hours,  their  days,  of 
cruel  agitation,  when  they  suifer  (they  confess  it  themselves) 
from  the  demon  of  contradiction,  when  everything  conspires 
to  displease  them,  when  they  must  offend.  Then  they  should 
have  sympathy,  not  irritation.  It  is  a  very  unsettled  state ; 
and  as  at  bottom  it  conceals  an  emotion  by  no  means  hate- 
ful, it  often  only  needs  a  little  relaxation  of  rule,  a  little 
address  and  love,  to  change  the  proud  humor  suddenly,  and 
transform  it  into  the  most  charming  sweetness — reparations, 
tears,  and  loving  abandonments. 

Men  should  deliberately  reflect  on  this  point ;  women  are 
more  uniform  than  they  are.  The  excesses  of  temper  of 
which  they  are  too  frequently  guilty,  should  especially  put 
them  on  guard  against  themselves.  When  a  woman  is 
excited  and  violent,  it  is  generally  a  very  natural  cause  (and  in 


212     The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession. 

truth  an  amiable  one)  which  disturbs  her,  and  incites  her  to 
provoke  the  man  by  sharp  words  and  defiances.  French- 
women perfectly  understand  this.  It  is  not  a  question  of  self- 
love,  but  of  love.  There  is  no  need  to  retaliate  (as  they  are 
too  apt  to  do  in  England)  ;  nor  is  it  wiser  to  laugh,  or  coax 
a  sudden  change  from  quarrels  to  caresses.  But  parry  a  little, 
maneuvre  a  little.  In  an  interval  of  weakness,  of  natural  reac- 
tion, her  good-humor  returns  ;  she  confesses  that  she  is  wrong, 
and  repays  you  by  being  good  again. 

In  barbarous  times  the  government  of  the  family,  like  the 
government  of  the  State,  was  a  system  of  coups  d'etat.  Let 
us  pass  on,  I  beg,  to  times  that  have  been  civilized  and  soft- 
ened by  mutual  understandings,  by  that  freer  and  milder 
rule  which  comes  from  harmony  of  will. 

Man's  domestic  coup  cPetat  is  that  ignoble  brutality  which 
lays  its  hard  hand  upon  a  woman,  that  savage  violence  which 
profanes  a  sacred  object  (so  delicate  and  so  easily  wounded) ! 
that  impious  ingratitude  which  insults  and  outrages  one's  own 
altar. 

The  woman's  coup  cTetat,  a  war  of  the  feeble  against  the 
strong,  is  her  own  shame — the  adultery  which  humiliates  the 
husband,  imposes  upon  him  children  not  his  own,  and 
degrades  both,  rendering  them  for  ever  miserable. 

Neither  of  these  crimes  would  be  common,  if  the  union 
were  every  day  strengthened  by  mutual  confidences,  by  a  per- 
manent communion,  wherein  the  most  trifling  diiferences,  dis- 
sipated as  soon  as  perceived,  would  not  have  time  to  swell 
into  such  tempests.  In  their  obligation  to  tell  each  other  every- 
thing,  they  would  be  more  watchful  of  themselves.  Tempta- 
tions, if  they  are  not  brooded  over,  lose  their  force. 

Coujugal  confession  (a  sacrament  of  the  future)  is  the  very 
essence  of  marriage.  As  we  emerge  from  the  coarse  and  bar- 
barous state  in  which  we  are  still  plunged,  we  shall  learn  that 
we  are  married  precisely  for  that — to  unbosom  ourselves 
every  day,  to  disclose  all  things  without  reserve,  our  busi- 


The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession.     213 

ness,  our  thoughts,  our  feelings — to  keep  nothing  to  ourselves, 
to  share  our  souls  entirely — even  those  formless  clouds,  which 
may  become  .great  storms  in  the  heart  that  nurses  instead  of 
expelling  them. 

This,  I  repeat,  is  the  foundation  of  marriage.  Is  genera- 
tion essential  to  it  ?  No.  Even  in  sterility  there  may  be 
complete  union ;  without  children  there  may  be  marriage. 
Does  it  consist  in  an  interchange  of  pleasure  ?  No.  Even 
when  the  pleasure  has  died  out  with  age  or  disease,  still  there 
is  marriage.  But  it  consists  in  daily  interchanges  of  thought 
and  will,  in  the  continual  blending  and  harmony  of  two  souls. 
Let  the  beautiful  maxim  of  the  law — marriage  is  consent — be 
verified  every  day  ;  let  the  confidences  of  every  moment 
assure  both  that  they  are  in  the  way  wherein  each  consents  to 
what  the  other  desires  and  does.  Whom  should"  you  marry, 
lady  ?  The  man  who  is  willing  to  live  before  you  in  the  full 
light  of  day,  concealing  no  thought  or  act,  conceding  and 
communicating  everything. 

Whom  should  you  avoid  ?  The  man  who,  freely  promis- 
ing to  give  himself  up,  still  holds  himself  aloof — who,  in  the 
selfish  inclosures  of  his  soul,  appropriates  to  himself  an 
exclusive  part  in  what  should  be  common  property — who 
keeps  one  sentiment  under  lock  and  key,  one  thought  to 
himself. 

Pure,  gentle,  and  faithful  women,  who  have  nothing  to  con- 
ceal and  nothing  to  atone  for,  have  yet,  even  more  than 
others,  the  need  of  loving  confessions,  of  continual  overflowings 
into  a  loving  heart.  Why  is  it  that  men,  generally,  profit  so 
little  by  such  an  element  of  happiness  ?  It  must  be  because  a 
used-up  youth,  or  the  bewilderings  of  the  world,  render  us 
blind  and  brutish,  true  enemies  of  ourselves,  that  we  do  not  at 
once  perceive  that  so  tender  a  communication  is  the  most 
exquisite  enjoyment  a  woman  can  bestow  upon  us. 

Oh,  as  for  that,  most  men  are  unworthy  of  it*!  They 
smile,  they  scarcely  listen ;  sometimes  they  show  that  they  art 


214     The  Humiliations  of  Love — Confession. 

sceptical  in  regard  to  simplest  revelations,  which  should  not 
only  be  accepted,  but  adored. 

And  yet  there  is  nothing  so  very  new  in  it.  In  matters  of 
business  the  married  pair  consult  and  confide  in  each  other. 
They  should  be  equally  confidential  in  matters  of  the  heart,  in 
matters  of  religion  and  love,  as  to  agitations,  emotions,  and 
all  the  secret  life  of  imagination.  We  are  united,  married, 
only  by  an  extreme,  conclusive  and  perilous  pledge — to  deliver 
up  our  last  secret,  and  to  put  ourselves  mutually  in  each  other's 
power,  by  telling  each  other  everything. 

Do  not  pass  by  the  dear  creature  when  she  is  a  little  ill, 
when  her  heart  is  troubled  with  foolish  dreams,  as  will  often 
happen  to  the  purest ;  do  not  leave  her  distrustful  of  her 
husband,  whom  yet  she  loves ;  teach  her  to  trust  in  your 
indulgence,  and  ask  your  advice,  rather  than  deliver  up  her 
important  secret  (which  at  bottom  is  just  nothing  at  all)  to 
some  one  who  henceforth  will  have  a  threat  for  both  her  and 
you,  who  will  hold  her  by  it,  and  on  the  street,  without  a 
word,  will  have  but  to  look  at  your  poor  innocent  to  make 
her  blush,  and  cast  down  her  eyes. 

And  here  again  is  something  to  reflect  upon  : — If  a  worthy 
and  reasonable  woman  become  somewhat  capricious,  her  hus- 
band should  ask  himself  the  reason,  and  if  the  fault  may  not 
be  in  himself.  In  the  midst  of  life,  with  all  its  intoxication 
and  its  folly,  we  neglect  the  essential  things,  we  neglect  even 
what  we  love  most. 

The  husband  should  say  to  himself:  "Perhaps  she  is  right ; 
I  am  growing  tedious,  too  much  absorbed  in  one  thing."  Or 
rather,  "  Do  I  sufficiently  respect  her  delicacy  in  our  physical 
relations.  Am  I  not  disagreeable  to  her  ?"  or  again,  "  She 
justly  regards  me  in  a  painful  aspect,  morally;  I  am  hard  and 
sordid.  Ah,  well !  I  will  recover  her  heart ;  I  will  be  more 
charitable,  more  generous,  more  magnanimous.  I  will  be 
above  myself.  She  must  necessarily  perceive  that,  after  all,  I 
am  better  than  he  who  makes  himself  agreeable  to  her,  and 
especially  that  I  love  her  more," 


The  Communion  of  Love.  2i_J 

Very  few  words  are  necessary.  Sometimes  it  is  enough 
that  they  merely  regard  each  other  with  love  in  the  evening. 

Doelmud,  an  artist — who  has  two  or  three  times  displayed 
decided  genius — in  an  engraving  which  he  calls  le  Cafd,  has 
very  well  expressed  the  look  of  two  sympathetic  souls,  whc 
have  no  need  of  word ;  they  understand  and  appreciate  each 
other  so  perfectly.  But  I  would  add  one  thing,  especially  in 
the  man — a  something  which  should  say :  Be  sure  you  cannot 
have  a  safer  shelter  than  you  have  in  me. 


XIII. 

THE    COMMUNION    OF    LOVE. 

I  CANNOT  do  without  God. 

A  momentary  eclipse  of  the  high  central  Idea  darkens  this 
wonderful  modern  world  of  sciences  and  discoveries.  All  is 
progress,  all  is  power,  but  everything  lacks  grandeur.  Minds 
are  struck  and  staggered  by  it — conceptions  enfeebled,  iso- 
lated, scattered.  There  is  certainly  the  poetical ;  but  the  grand 
whole,  the  harmony,  the  poem,  where  are  they  ?  I  do  not 
see  them. 

I  cannot  do  without  God. 

I  said,  ten  years  ago,  to  an  eminent  thinker,  whose  bold 
and  energetic  severity  I  liked :  You  are  a  radical ;  and  so  am 
I,  in  one  sense,  for  I  wish  to  live ;  and  strict  centralization 
would  kill  off  all  individual  life.  But  the  loving  unity  of  the 
world,  far  from  killing  it,  stimulates  it — because  this  unity  is 
love.  Who  would  not  desire  such  a  centralization,  and  whc 
does  not  perceive  it  throughout  the  universe  ? 


2i6  The  Communion  of  Love. 

Because  we  have  abandoned  the  untenable  argument  of  an 
arbitrary  providence,  existing  from  day  to  day  by  personal 
decrees  and  little  coups  d'etat,  is  that  as  much  as  to  acknow- 
ledge that  we  do  not  perceive  that  high,  impartial  Love, 
which  reigns  by  its  own  grand  laws  ?  And  being  Reason,  is 
it  not  also  Love  ?  As  for  me,  I  feel  beneath  me  the  mighty 
wave  that  bears  me  up.  From  the  depths  of  life  a  strange 
fervor  arises,  a  fruitful  aspiration ;  a  breath  passes  before  my 
face,  and  I  feel  a  thousand  deaths  in  me. 

To  reduce  all  religions  to  one  head,  in  order  to  cut  that 
one  off,  is  a  very  easy  proceeding.  But  if  you  effaced  the 
last  trace  of  historical  religions  and  established  creeds  in  this 
world,  the  Eternal  Creed  would  remain.  The  Maternal  pro- 
vidence of  Nature,  adored  in  the  midst  of  dead  and  living 
religions  of  the  past  or  of  the  future,  and  of  which  you  do  not 
think,  remains  immutable ;  and  when  the  last  great  Deluge 
shall  burst  over  our  little  globe,  it  will  still  endure,  indestruc- 
tible as  that  World  of  which  it  is  the  charm  and  the  life. 

This,  my  faith  in  a  loving  cause,  obscured,  I  could  no 
longer  act.  Without  the  happiness  of  feeling  that  this  world 
is  beloved,  and  that  I  am  beloved  in  it,  I  should  no  longer 
wish  to  live.  Then  lay  me  in  the  tomb,  for  the  spectacle  of 
Progress  would  have  no  more  interest  for  me ;  though  Art  and 
Thought  should  soar  higher  still,  I  should  no  longer  have 
strength  to  follow.  Though  to  the  thirty  sciences  that  were 
born  but  yesterday,  you  should  add  thirty  more,  or  a  thou- 
sand— as  many  as  you  please — I  should  not  want  them. 
What  could  I  do  with  them,  when  Love  is  extinguished  in 


me 


The  Orient — humanity  in  its  first  beautiful  dawn,  before 
the  sophistical  Centuries  obscured  it— set  out  from  an  idea 
which  will  become  dominant  again  in  our  second  childhood,  a 
zenith  of  wisdom.  That  idea  is,  that  the  Coramunioh  of  Love, 
sweetest  of  the  mysteries  of  God,  is  also  the  highest,  and  that 
its  clear  gleam  for  a  moment  displays  the  Infinite  to  us 


The  Communion  of  Love.  217 

Dark  in  an  inferior  state  of  being  (and  such  is  ours  at  first), 
it  becomes  brighter  and  brighter,  in  proportion  as  the  flame 
is  fed  with  refining  and  sanctifying  love. 

I  do  not  here  repeat  what  I  said  last  year  on  this  subject, 
so  important  to  all,  about  the  touching,  the  terrible  mystery 
wherein  a  woman,  to  impart  life,  sports  with  her  own — wherein 
pleasure,  happiness,  fruitfulness,  bring  us  face  to  face  with 
death. 

We  feel  it  in  that  hour,  in  pur  profound  agitation  ;  we  feel 
it  in  our  quivering  flesh,  and  in  our  icy  bones  ;  a  thunderbolt 
falling  could  add  nothing  to  it.  At  the  moment  when  we  are 
so  near  losing  our  beloved,  when  the  chill  of  the  agony  is 
upon  us,  if  voice  remained  to  us,  we  should  utter  one  cry, 
torn  from  our  inmost  being,  and  from  the  depths  of  truth : 
"  Woman  is  a  religion." 

We  may  utter  it  now,  we  may  utter  it  always ;  for  it  will 
be  always  true. 

I  said  it  of  my  own  little  girl,  while  yet  she  was  but  a  child 
— "  A  religion  of  purity,  of  mercy,  and  of  poetry." 

How  much  more  should  I  say  it  now,  that,  truly  a  woman 
and  a  mother,  she,  by  her  grace,  radiates  on  all  sides  a  har- 
monious ppwer,  which  from  the  family  circle  projects  into 
society  still  wider  circles — "  A  religion  of  goodness  and 
civilization." 

It  is  especially  in  religious  eclipses — when  the  traditions  of 
the  past  pale  on  the  horizon,  when  a  new  world,  complicated 
and  fettered  even  by  its  own  greatness,  organizes  itself  but 
slowly — that  woman  can  do  much  to  sustain  and  console.  To 
the  support  of  the  central  Idea,  which,  slowly  evolving  itself, 
develops  the  oneness  of  intelligence,  she,  without  knowing  it, 
brings  the  charming  unity  of  life,  of  love,  of  religion  itself. 

In  the  great  assemblies  of  men,  which  have  not  worship  for 
their  object,  in  the  popular  concerts  of  Germany  (wherein 
five  or  six  thousand  musicians  are  met),  in  the  vast  political 
or  military  fraternities  of  Switzerland  and  France,  such  as 

10 


21 8  The  Communion  of  Love. 

they  have  been  and  will  be,  the  presence  of  women  bestows  a 
holy  emotion.  Our  Country  is  not  there,  if  our  mothers  and 
our  wives  are  not  there  with  their  children.  Speaking  only 
of  family  and  of  individual  happiness,  I  should  simply  say  of 
woman,  in  the  language  a  good  laborer  one  day  made  use  of 
before  me  :  "  She  is  the  Sunday  of  man.'' 

.That  is  to  say,  not  merely  the  repose,  but  the  charm,  the  salt 
of  life,  and  the  reason  why  we  wish  to  live. 

The  Sunday  !  the  joy,  the  freedom,  the  festival,  the 
cherished,  the  sacred  part  of  the  soul — not  the  half,  nor  a 
third,  nor  a  fourth,  but  the  whole. 

Fully  to  fathom  the  significance  of  that  word  Swnday, 
which  means  much  more  than  idleness,  it  is  necessary  to  know 
all  that  passes  in  the  mind  of  a  laborer  on  Saturday  evening, 
all  the  dreams  that  float  there,  all  the  hopes  and  aspirations. 
Is  it  woman  in  general,  or  some  pretty  mistress,  to  whom  you 
must  look  for  your  Sunday  ?  No,  it  must  be  your  own  wife, 
your  gentle,  amiable,  faithful  wife ;  because  only  with  her  is 
a  sentiment  of  certainty  mingled  with  your  enjoyment — a 
feeling  of  definite  possession,  which  deepens  your  happiness, 
and  makes  it  delightful.  The  penetrating  perception  and 
fine  appreciation  of  a  woman  so  devoted,  who  affords  you  so 
many  pleasures,  far  from  lessening  your  content,  opens  to  you, 
in  a  thousand  delicate  forms,  a  vast  unknown  of  beatitude. 

In  her  is  every  sweet  and  sacred  emotion.  She  brings  back 
to  you,  even  purer  than  of  old,  the  solemn  impressions  of 
your  childhood. 

Your  morning  awakings,  when  you  were  but  twelve  years 
old,  which  you  can  yet  recollect — the  freshness  of  the  early 
dawn,  the  silvery  bell  of  the  village,  as  it  sounded  then — all 
seem  far  away,  and  vanished,  never  to  return.  But,  on  Sun- 
day morning,  having  toiled  late  into  the  night,  and  awaking 
rather  later  than  usual,  you  are  greeted  by  the  soft  smile  of 
your  wife,  who  for  a  long  time  has  been  gazing  on  you,  and 
who,  with  her  cheerful  voice,  and  her  round  arms  about  you, 


The  Communion  of  Love.  219 

salutes  and  blesses  you.  She  has  waited,  and  prayed  for 
you.  And  you  exclaim  to  yourself,  "  Ah,  my  dawn,  my 
angel  us  !  how  sweet  the  sentiment  of  morning  that  you  bring 
to  me  !  I  feel  as  though  twenty  years  of  my  life  were  effaced. 
Oh  !  how  young  you  make  me !  and  how  I  wish  I  were  truly 
young,  for  your  sake  !" 

But  she,  with  tact,  putting  you  off  and  evading  you,  offers 
you  a  diversion — some  cherished  idea  that  you  lately  dis- 
cussed with  her,  some  favorite  project  which  occurred  to  you 
even  yesterday;  thence  to  your  common  interests,  to  the 
family  and  the  children,  the  transition  is  easy.  And  so,  when 
she  is  sure  she  has  you  in  a  gracious  mood,  inclined  to  a 
favorable  hearing,  she  suggests  something  that  shall  do  your 
heart  good,  and  sanctify  the  day,  some  good  to  be  done. 
The  times  are  hard,  and  the  effort  is  not  trifling :  but  with 
plenty  of  work,  and  God  aiding  you,  you  still  may  do  it. 
You  do  not  say  no  ;  you  wish  to  please  her.  But  before  you 
have  time  to  tell  her  all  your  thoughts,  her  quick  tact  pre- 
vents you :  "  See,  my  dear,  Charles  is  awake,  Edward  is 
prattling ;  the  baby  has  not  slept  this  long  time,  and  is  listen- 
ing. Why,  how  late  it  is !  I  must  dress  them." 

'Tis  dismal,  gloomy  weather.  It  is  snowing,  and  there  is 
a  high  wind.  The  northern  birds,  leaving  early,  foretell  a 
hard  winter.  There  will  be  no  visitors ;  will  it  be  a  cheer- 
less Sunday  ?  By  no  means ;  where  she  is,  who  could  be 
sad  ?  It  is  not  the  bright  blaze  on  the  hearth,  nor  the  hot 
breakfast,  that  warms  the  house.  It  is  her  affectionate 
vivacity  that  inspires  and  animates  all.  She  is  so  thoughtful 
for  her  own,  and  so  loves  and  cares  for  them,  so  softly  lines 
their  nest,  that  there  is  only  room  for  joy  in  it. 

And  their  happiness  is  doubled  by  the  winter.  They  con- 
gratulate themselves  on  the  bad  weather,  which  shuts  them  up, 
and  the  pleasant  day  they  are  going  to  pass  together.  There 
is  little  noise.  As  for  the  husband,  he  takes  advantage  of  the 
day  to  do  some  odd  job  for  himself.  He  is  like  Rembrandt'? 


220  The  Communion  of  Love. 

little  picture  of  the  Carpenter ;  at  least,  if  he  does  not  plane 
like  him,  he  reads  and  re-reads  a  book.  But  as  he  reads,  he  is 
conscious  that  the  children  are  out  there,  because  from  time 
to  time  they  utter  something  very  low.  Behind  him  he  per- 
ceives, not  with  his  eyes,  but  with  his  heart,  something  that 
makes  no  noise — her  gentle,  wavy  movements,  and  her  light 
step.  She  does  only  what  is  indispensable,  and,  with  her 
finger  on  her  lip,  makes  a  sign  to  them  to  be  very  good,  and 
not  disturb  him. 

And  what  are  the  children  doing  ?  I  am  curious  to  know. 
They  are  reading  a  good  book.  They  are  reading  of  the  bold 
adventures,  the  hardihood  and  sacrifices  of  the  old  travellers, 
who  opened  the  world  for  us,  and  suffered  so  much  for  us. 
"  This  coffee,  children,  that  your  father  drinks,  the  sugar  you 
put  into  your  milk  so  freely  (perhaps  too  much  of  it),  were 
all  bought  with  heroism  and  suffering  ;  be  grateful,  then.  To 
Providence  we  owe  those  other  providences,  the  great  souls 
who  slowly  bind  this  globe  together,  who  enlighten  it  and 
make  it  fruitful,  who  bring  it,  or  soon  will  bring  it,  into  the 
harmony  and  unity  of  one  single  manly  soul."  By  degrees 
she  tells  them  of  those  material  communions  which  prepare 
them  for  the  moral  one — of  navigation,  commerce,  roads, 
canals,  railroads,  and  the  electric  telegraph. 

Material !  I  conform  to  the  foolish  phraseology  of  the  time  ; 
but  they  are  in  no  respect  material.  These  things  come  from 
the  mind  ;  and  they  return  to  the  mind,  of  which  they  are  the 
means  and  shapes.  In  introducing  nations  to  each  other,  sup- 
pressing ignorances  and  blind  antipathies,  I  maintain  that  they 
are  equally  moral  and  religious  powers,  or  as  I  have  said, 
communions. 

To  teach  them  gradually,  according  to  their  intelligence, 
with  suitable  slowness  and  precaution,  is  to  impart  to  children 
religious  instruction,  to  train  them  in  a  divine  spirit,  in  the 
spirit  of  goodness  and  tenderness. 

Who  does  not  feel  these  revelations  in  his  heart  when  they 


The  Communion  of  Love.  221 

come  to  him  from  beloved  lips  ?  The  children  are  amused  ; 
but  he,  who  knew  all  this  before,  in  receiving  it  again  from 
her,  with  such  a  softening  charm,  is  silent  in  his  perfect  ecstasy, 
and  feels  that  all  our  new  arts  are  but  powers  of  love. 

Father  and  children  are  alike  nourished  by  her  soul  and  her 
sweet  wisdom.  They  listen,  and  when  she  has  finished,  they 
awake  as  from  a  dream.  A  slight  noise,  a  little  tic-tac,  is 
heard  on  the  window.  It  is  the  remonstrance  of  a  winged 
neighbor  ;  the  house-sparrow  says,  in  his  frank,  petulant  way : 
"  What,  you  little  selfish  things !  when  the  weather  is  so  bad 
do  you  take  care  only  of  yourselves."  This  speech  has  a  tre- 
mendous effect ;  they  open  the  window  and  throw  him  bread. 
But  what  an  excitement  when  one  of  their  guests,  bolder 
than  the  rest,  taking  advantage  of  the  chance,  enters  and 
bravely  hops  to  the  farther  end  of  the  room. 

"  O  thank  you,  cousin  Red  Breast,  who,  without  ceremony, 
remind  us  of  what  we  had  forgotten — the  universal  relation- 
ship. You  are  right ;  is  not  our  home  indeed  yours  also  ?" 
They  hardly  dare  to  breathe  ;  their  mother  throws  him 
some  crumbs,  very  carefully,  so  as  not  to  frighten  him.  And 
he,  not  at  all  abashed,  having  picked  them  all  up,  and  even 
approached  the  hearth,  flies  off,  leaving  this  adieu  behind  him  : 
"  Good  by,  my  good  little  brothers  !" 

If  dinner-time  were  not  so  near,  their  mother  would  have 
much  to  say ;  but  they  must  have  something  to  eat,  and  you 
too,  little  robins. 

At  dessert,  she  tells  them  of  the  banquet  of  nature,  to 
which  God  invites  all  his  creatures,  great  and  small,  to  sit 
down,  placing  them  according  to  their  intelligence,  their 
industry,  their  activity  and  labor — the  ant  high  up,  and  some 
giant  like  the  rhinoceros  or  hippopotamus  low  down.  If  man 
sits  in  the  highest  seat,  it  is  because  of  one  thing  alone — his 
perception  of  the  grand  harmony  and  the  Love  divine,  his 
tender  sympathy  with  all  that  emanates  from  it,  his  sublime 
gift  of  Pity. 


222  The  Offices  of  Nature. 

Why  is  it  that  this  discourse,  which  at  another  time  might 
pass  unheeded,  enters  the  hearts  of  the  children  ?  What 
engraves  this  hour  on  their  memory,  and  why  are  they 
touched  ?  Because  their  parents  consummate  before  them 
that  act  of  fraternity  which  their  mother's  prayer  bespoke  in 
the  morning  :  the  laborer  will  share  his  toil  with  his  brother 
— even  his  life  and  his  soul.  With  tearful  eyes  she  embraces 
him,  and  the  table  is  sanctified. 

Enough  for  one  day.  Now  children,  gladden  your  father's 
heart  by  a  double  song — a  song  of  the  French  land  in  its  days 
of  great  sacrifices,  which,  in  the  hour  of  need,  you  would 
imitate ;  and  a  hymn  of  gratitude  to  God,  the  benefactor  of 
the  world,  who  has  given  you  this  day,  and  perhaps  his  own 
tomorrow. 

"  Now  let  us  go  to  bed.  Your  father,  very  tired,  is  almost 
asleep  now.  He  sat  up  so  late  last  night,  to  finish  his  Satur- 
day's work !  Sleep,  my  own — sleep,  my  children  ;  and  God 
keep  you  while  you  sleep." 

And  so  blessing  them  all,  she  carefully  covers  up  the  fire, 
making  no  noise,  hardly  breathing,  and  quietly  lies  down  near 
him,  very  careful  not  to  wake  him.  Though  he  sleeps,  he 
well  knows  she  is  there ;  for  she  is  his  spring-time  of  love,  his 
summer  in  the  midst  of  gloomy  winter.  In  herself  are  all 
seasons.  What  is  all  nature  to  her  sacred  charm  ? 


XIV. 

THE    OFFICES    OF    NATURE. 

THE  two  natural  and  reasonable  aspects  of  religion  are 
demonstrated  in  the  tendencies  of  the  man  and  the  woman,  as 
they  are  displayed  by  each.  Man  perceives  the  infinite  in  the 
invariable  Laws  of  the  universe,  which  are  the  ways  of  God's 


The  Offices  of  Nature.  223 

existence  ;  woman,  in  the  loving  Cause,  the  father  of  Nature, 
who  creates  better  out  of  good.  She  feels  God  in  that  which  is 
the  life,  the  soul,  and  the  eternal  act — love  and  generation. 

Are  these  points  of  view  contradictory !  By  no  means. 
The  two  harmonize  in  this,  that  the  God  of  the  woman,  Love, 
would  not  be  love  if  he  were  not  love  for  all,  incapable  of 
caprice  or  arbitrary  preference,  if  he  did  not  love  according 
to  law,  reason,  and  justice — that  is  to  say,  according  to  the 
idea  that  man  has  of  God. 

These  two  columns  of  the  temple  are  so  deeply  planted 
that  no  one  will  attempt  to  overthrow  them.  The  world, 
however,  alternates  ;  sometimes  it  sees  only  Laws,  sometimes 
only  the  Cause.  It  for  ever  oscillates  between  the  two  reli- 
gious poles,  but  it  does  not  change  them. 

Science — at  present  not  centralized,  as  it  soon  will  be — is 
much  inclined  to  recognise  only  Laws,  and  forget  the  loving 
Cause,  imagining  the  machine  could  go  without  a  motor. 
This  forgetfulness  is  what  produces  the  sad  religious  eclipse 
by  which  we  are  now  darkened,  but  it  cannot  last  long.  The 
beautiful  central  light  from  which  proceeds  all  the  joy  of  the 
world  will  reappear.  Though  weakened  for  a  time,  the  senti- 
ment of  a  loving  cause  will  return  to  us.  No,  laws  are  not 
causes ;  and  what  would  become  of  our  progress  if  we  did 
not  recover  the  idea  of  causality  and  life  ? 

There  is  neither  cheerfulness  nor  happiness  here  below, 
independent  of  the  idea  of  production.  Speaking  of  children, 
I  have  already  said  that  we  can  develop  them  and  render  them 
happy  only  by  making  them  creators.  Well,  from  their  little 
world,  let  us  carry  the  principle  into  the  great  one.  When 
we  perceive  that  it  is  stagnant,  that  there  is  no  longer  vital 
warmth  in  it,  an  overwhelming  despondency  takes  possession 
of  the  heart,  and  we  become  happy  again  only  by  recovering 
the  idea  of  the  great  fruitful  movement  where,  free,  and  yet 
restrained  by  the  high  animating  Reason,  we,  workmen  of  a 
creative  Love,  also  shall  create  in  joy. 


224  The  Offices  of  Nature. 

This  explanation  was  necessary  to  introduce  us  to  the 
inmost  heart  of  the  man  and  the  woman,  and  to  their  two* 
religions,  wherein  each  plays  a  distinct  and  very  delicate  part, 
each  fearing  to  wound  the  other ;  for  generally  they  do  not 
know  how  much,  after  all,  they  harmonize — hence  the  gropings, 
the  hesitations  full  of  fears,  the  faint  contest  between  two 
souls  which  in  reality  are  but  one.  Never  in  the  daytime, 
before  witnesses,  is  this  tender  struggle ;  the  children  must  be 
asleep,  even  the  light  put  out.  It  is  their  last  thought  on  the 
pillow. 

But  although  each  maintains  a  true  and  sacred  aspect  of 
religion  (he  the  Laws,  she  the  Cause),  there  is  this  material 
difference  :  that  in  God  the  man  perceives  rather  His  modes 
of  existence,  His  laws  of  action  ;  the  woman  His  love,  which 
continually  prompts  His  actions.  She  is  more  in  the  sanctuary 
of  God,  I  should  say,  and  nearer  to  his  heart.  Thus,  having 
the  Love,  she  has  all  the  rest  and  understands  it  all.  She 
touches  at  will  every  note  on  the  grand  key-board,  while  man 
for  the  most  part  knows  but  a  few.  She  comprehends  by 
intuition  all  the  natural  manifestations  of  God,  from  grave  to 
gay,  from  lively  to  severe.  She  is  sovereign  mistress  of  this 
divine  art,  and  teaches  it  to  man.  "  Whence,  indeed,  does 
she  get  all  this?"  he  asks.  "Where  finds  she  this  treasure 
of  loving  things,  this  torrent  of  enchantments  ?  "  Where,  but 
in  thine  own  love,  and  in  the  love  she  bears  to  thee,  in  the 
reserved  riches  of  a  heart  which  no  outpourings,  no  genera- 
tions can  empty.  Every  day  it  gives  out  a  world,  but  still 
the  universe  remains. 

So  simple,  so  modest,  and  yet  so  superior !  From  day  to 
day  you  go  on  blindly,  never  marking  the  course  of  time, 
your  eye  fixed  on  the  earth,  by  the  necessities  of  toil ;  but 
she  perceives  more  clearly  the  progress  of  time,  for  she  is  in 
harmony  with  it.  She  follows  it  hourly,  charged  with  the 
duty  of  foreseeing  for  you,  your  needs,  your  pleasures,  your 
repasts,  and  your  repose;  in  every  moment  a  duty,  but  also 


The  Offices  of  Nature.  225 

a  poetical  delight.  From  month  to  month,  warned  by  the 
pangs  of  love,  she  scans  the  passing  time,  and  watches  its 
sacred  march.  When  the  solemn  hours  of  the  year  are  struck^ 
in  the  flight  of  seasons,  she  hears  the  impressive  chant  uprising 
from  the  depths  of  nature. 

She  has  her  ritual,  in  no  wise  arbitrary,  which  to  her 
expresses  the  life  of  her  country,  in  its  immutable  relations 
with  the  life  divine.  It  is  no  easy  matter  to  meddle  with 
that.  The  traditions,  the  authority,  which  impose  upon  one 
people  the  rites  of  another,  tend  to  produce  naught  but  jar- 
ring discord.  The  songs  of  the  exalted  Orient,  beautiful 
as  they  are,  are  discordant  in  Gaul,  for  has  she  not  her  song 
of  the  lark,  which  as  bravely  rises  to  God. 

Our  sunrise  is  not  the  sunrise  of  America  nor  of  Judea, 
nor  are  our  fogs  the  heavy  mists  of  the  Baltic ;  and  all  these 
have  their  voices.  Our  climate,  our  hours,  our  seasons,  all 
sing  after  their  own  fashion ;  and  the  woman,  with  her  fine 
French  ear,  has  caught  them  all.  Yet,  do  not  ask  her  for 
them ;  she  would  sing  you  only  the  conventional  strain.  But 
when  she  is  at  home  alone,  somewhat  saddened  by  your 
absence,  and  quietly  working — in  her  pensive  mood,  she  hums 
in  an  undertone,  a  simple  and  holy  strain  that  conies  of  itself — 
of  the  day  and  the  hour,  her  own  humble  vespers,  her  heart- 
song  for  God  and  for  thee. 

How  well  she  knows  the  festivals,  the  true  festivals,  of  the 
year !  In  that,  be  guided  by  her ;  for  she  alone  perceives  the* 
days  of  grace  wherein  heaven  is  loving  towards  the  earth, 
the  high  divine  indulgences.  She  knows  them,  because  she 
makes  them— she,  the  kindly  smile  of  God,  the  festival  and 
the  Christmas,  the  everlasting  Easter,  of  love,  wherein  the  heart 
lives,  and  lives,  and  lives. 

Without  her,  who  would  care  for  spring?  How  sickly, 
then,  and  sad,  would  be  the  fruitful  warmth  with  which  ah1 
life  ferments.  But  with  her — enchantment ! 

Freed  from  their  winter  confinement,  they  go  forth  into  the 

10* 


226  The  Offices  of  Nature. 

air.  She  in  a  white  dress,  although  at  times  the  warm  sun 
is  chilled  by  a  touch  of  the  north  wind's  breath.  All  is  life, 
but  all  is  combat,  too.  In  the  meadow,  growing  green 
again,  there  is  sport  and  contest ;  kids  against  kids  try  their 
sprouting  horns ;  the  nightingales,  that  have  come  a  fortnight 
before  their  mistresses,  contend  in  duels  of  song  for  priorities 
of  love. 

In  the  midst  of  this  pleasant  combat,  out  of  which  pro- 
ceeds a  seeming  peace,  she  appears — she,  the  truce,  the 
goodness,  the  beauty,  the  living  joy  of  this  world !  As  she 
advances,  her  tender  heart  is  divided  between  two  loves. 
From  both  sides  they  appeal  to  her.  With  brimming  hands 
her  children  bring  her  young  flowers,  and  cry,  "  Mamma  !  see ! 
see ! "  while  another  whispers  in  her  ear,  and  still  she  smiles. 
Not  with  impunity  may  one  thus  have  a  charming  woman 
on  his  arm,  so  near  his  bosom  and  his  heart.  Very  sweetly 
he  urges  her,  and  she  is  not  insensible.  Devoted  and  tender, 
she  hearkens  to  all,  so  truly  does  she  wish  to  make  them  all 
happy.  "  Yes,  my  little  ones — yes,  my  darling."  She  says  to 
them,  "  Let  us  play,  then ;"  and  to  him,  "  O,  whatever  you 
wish !" 

But  in  her  extreme  goodness,  which  renders  her  even 
weakly  obedient  to  her  children,  whoever  knows  how  to 
observe  her  may  detect  behind  her  smile  a  pensive  abstrac- 
tion. Her  husband  thinks  only  of  her,  but  she  thinks  of  God. 

When  the  pretty  festival  of  field  flowers,  and  the  labors  of 
haymaking,  return  with  the  warmth  and  mildness,  she,  like  the 
others,  comes  with  her  rake  to  work.  But  beautiful  as  she 
always  is,  her  form  has  now  assumed  a  sweet  luxuriance, 
which,  while  it  renews  her  freshness,  yet  weighs  her  down. 
Her  white  bosom,  whence  her  children  have  drawn  their  life, 
those  treasures  which  even  he  who  knows  them  best  would 
hide  away,  these  render  her  a  little  languid,  a  little  indolent. 
She  is  soon  fatigued,  and  they  forbid  her  to  work ;  but  they 
work  for  her.  Her  children,  gay  and  happy — her  husband, 


The  Offices  of  Nature.  ,,227 

full  of  tenderness — cannot  pass  a  flower  without  bringing  it 
to  her,  without  presenting  it  to  the  sovereign  rose.  They 
load  her  table  with  them,  they  cover  her  bosom  and  her  head 
with  them.  She  runs  from  the  fragrant  shower,  and  cries, 
"  Enough !  enough !"  But  they  do  not  spare  her.  She  can 
hardly  see  through  the  flowery  rain ;  she  no  longer  defends 
herself,  and  is  overwhelmed  and  drowned  in  caresses,  kisses, 
blossoms. 

Already  summer  is  upon  them,  and  the  heat  is  extreme ; 
the  delicate  wife  must  not  be  agitated.  The  three  months 
between  haymaking  and  vintage  are  terribly  oppressive  to 
man,  equally  to  him  who  works  with  his  hands  and  him  who 
works  with  his  mind.  Heavy  and  sharp,  the  hot  sun  strikes 
the  brain,  and  that  in  two  ways :  at  the  same  time  that  it 
prostrates  our  strength  it  exalts  the  passions.  Her  husband 
is  enervated  by  the  season,  by  his  labor,  by  indulgence.  She 
perceives  that,  and  it  alarms  her.  She  hazards  a  word  of  ad- 
vice, a  word  of  true  religion.  "At  such  a  time  as  this,  when 
God  is  perfecting  his  work,  and  completing  his  yearly  treasure 
of  nourishment  for  the  human  race,  does  not  the  exclusive 
employment  of  man's  strength  belong  to  Him  ?"  But  it  is 
not  well  taken ;  he  becomes  cold,  even  angry.  By  what  pious 
stratagems  shall  she  wean  herself  from  him  ?  By  what  charm- 
ing evasions,  and  lowly, prayers  for  postponement?  Then 
comes  the  inexorable  July,  and  with  it  the  harvest  revels,  the 
triumph  of  the  year,  the  crowning  banquet  of  plenty.  The 
extreme  heat  stings  like  a  wasp,  and  makes  her  ill ;  and  so  her 
petition  is  granted,  and  a  little  bed  made  for  her  near  the  cra- 
dle of  his  children. 

O,  happy  autumn !  golden  time  of  happiness  and  freedom  ! 
The  end  of  toil  is  come,  and  love  which,  in  the  murderous 
months,  made  war  on  love,  may  at  last  throw  prudence  away, 
and  indulge  the  promptings  of  the  heart.  He  who  was  angry 
at  her  refusals  will  never  know  who  suffered  most.  She 
has  but  one  word  for  him — she  returns  to  him  entirely ;  and 


22&  The  Offices  of  Nature. 

on  the  promised  day  he  reminds  her.  "  But,  my  dear,  should 
not  the  work  be  finished  first  ?  This  gray,  uncertain  weather, 
veiled  by  a  transparent  gauze  of  mist,  is  so  admirable  for 
the  vintage!  Let  us  make  haste.  This  mild,  pale  sun, 
piercing  through  the  haze,  to  bestow  a  parting  kiss  on  the 
amber  grape,  will  kiss  away  the  dew  from  it.  Now  is  just 
the  time  to  gather  them.  In  the  evening  we  shall  no  longer 
be  separated.  It  is  not  so  warm  now ;  I  shall  return  to  tliee 
and  take  refuge  with  thee  all  the  winter  long." — Here  is  joy 
indeed !  In  certain  countries  the  apes  and  the  bears  are  fud- 
dled with  grapes.  Why  should  not  the  wits  of  man  be  stag- 
gered ?  As  for  this  one,  he  is  drunk  before  he  has  drunk ; 
but  she  is  sober.  "  Softly,  softly,  let  us  set  a  good  example, 
and  work." 

In  the  vintage  there  is  complete  fraternizing ;  all  are  equal 
there,  and  your  smart  worker  is  your  only  aristocrat.  To 
her  it  is  a  great  pleasure  to  sup  in  friendship  with  the  people. 
All  are  welcome,  even  those  who  have  not  helped.  She  will 
be  truly  happy  to  have  them.  She  knows  all  the  village  well, 
and  misses  the  absent.  So  and  so,  what  about  him  ?  He  is 
unwell.  Well,  we  will  send  for  him.  And  another  is  travel- 
ling. Thus  she  inquires  for  all,  wishing  she  could  have  them 
all  together,  united  and  friendly. 

The  place  is  ample — one  of  those  amphitheatres  of  hills 
from  which  some  vineyards  look  down  upon  the  sea — the 
weather  so  mild,  you  may  dine  in  the  open  air.  A  gentle  breeze 
favors  the  departure  of  the  winged  travellers  that  flit  athwart 
the  sky.  The  day  is  short ;  although  not  old,  it  seems 
already  to  assume  the  pensiveness  of  evening. 

Never  was  she  more  beautiful ;  her  eyes  beam  with  im- 
pressive sweetness  ;  and  each  feels  that  she  looks  on  him,  and 
wishes  him  well,  that  she  thinks  of  him,  and  of  all.  By  her 
tender  regards  the  whole  country  is  blessed. 

Her  daughter  had  twined  for  her  a  charming  crown  of 
vine  branches,  delicate  heliotropes,  and  the  red  vervain — a 


The  Offices  of -Nature.  229 

royal  and  right  feminine  crown,  which  perfumes  all  the  air 
around.  She  declines  it  at  first,  but  her  husband  insists ;  he 
would  crown  her,  if  he  could,  with  all  the  crowns  of  earth. 

Yet  she  seems  sad.     "  What  is  the  matter —  ?" 

"Ah,  I  am  too  happy !" 

"All  our  friends,  all  our  kindred,  are  here.  And  all  these 
good  people — not  one  has  stayed  away." 

"Alas!  my  dear,  those,  only  those,  who  suffer  and  who 
weep  are  absent.  Pardon — " 

She  can  say  no  more  ;  her  emotion  chokes  her.  To  hide  a 
falling  tear  she  bends  over  her  glass,  and  that  adorable  pearl 
is  mingled  with  the  blood  of  the  vine.  Her  husband  snatches 
the  glass  from  her  lips,  and  .empties  it  at  a  draught.  But 
those  who  do  not  understand,  and  only  know  she  weeps,  are 
moved  in  sympathy  with  her. 

And  ah1  are  in  communion  with  her  heart. 


BOOK   III. — WOMAN   IN   SOCIETY. 


I. 

WOMAN  AN    ANGEL    OF    PEACE    AND    CIVILIZATION. 

WOMAN,  in  her  superior  aspect,  is  the  mediator  of  love. 

A  profound  and  delightful  influence  which  is  manifested  in 
two  revelations. 

In  proportion  as  the  first,  the  attraction  of  sex,  and  plea- 
sure— the  sanguine  storm  of  life — fades  out  and  dies,  the 
second  appears  in  all  its  celestial  sweetness — the  influence  of 
peace,  consolation,  and  mediation.  Man  is,  most  of  all,  an 
agent  of  creation.  He  produces,  but  in  two  senses ;  for  he  also 
produces  wars,  discords,  and  combats.  In  the  midst  of  the 
arts  and  the  ideas,  the  torrent  of  benefactions,  that  flow  from 
his  fruitful  hand,  flows  also  a  flood  of  evils,  which  woman 
follows,  to  soften,  console,  and  heal. 

I  am  traversing  a  dangerous  forest,  and  I  hear  a  stealthy 
step.  Surely  that  must  be  a  man,  I  say,  and  I  stand  on  my 
guard.  But  behold,  it  is  a  woman.  "  Hail,  gentle  angel  of 
peace !" 

An  Englishman  who  made  a  benevolent  tour  through  Ire- 
land, thirty  years  ago,  to  inquire  into  the  evils  of  the  land 


Woman  an  Angel  of  Peace.  231 

and  seek  a  remedy  for  them,  described  the  fierce  defiance  of 
those  indigent  and  miserable  creatures,  whom  the  entrance 
of  a  stranger  into  their  miserable  huts  greatly  disturbed, 
"  Was  he  an  agent  of  the  customs  ?  Was  he  a  spy  ?" 

But,  happily,  he  was  not  alone.  Behind  him  they  caught  a 
glimpse  of  a  woman's  countenance,  and  they  had  henceforth 
nothing  to  conceal ;  they  were  reassured  and  full  of  confi- 
dence. They  could  not  imagine  that  he  would  have  brought 
his  wife  among  them  if  he  had  not  wished  them  well. 

Livingstone  met  with  the  same  experience,  in  his  admirable 
expedition  to  the  unexplored  regions  of  Africa,  in  1859.  A 
man,  alone,  would  have  been  suspected,  and  probably  put  to 
death ;  but  the  sight  of  his  family  satisfied  and  pacified 
them. 

"  Peace !  peace,"  was  the  prayer,  the  eager  cry,  of  those 
good  people,  as  they  expressed  themselves  in  their  simple 
language  to  the  European  missionary  who  brought  them 
the  protective  arts.  The  women  said  to  him,  "  Give  us 
sleep :"  and  this  sleep,  this  peace,  this  complete  security,  they 
beheld  in  the  train  that  approached,  with  the  rolling  house 
and  the  oxen.  They  beheld  them  in  Mrs.  Livingstone,  sur- 
rounded by  her  three  children.  That  spectacle  satisfied 
them ;  for  they  well  knew  that  he  would  not  have  brought 
that  precious  nest  into  a  den  of  lions,  if  he  had  not  wished  to 
do  good  to  men. 

If  the  mere  sight  of  a  woman  has  so  much  effect,  how  is  it 
with  her  words?  with  those  accents  which  penetrate  from 
heart  to  heart  ? 

The  language  of  woman  is  the  universal  fraxinella,  the 
peace-maker,  which  everywhere  softens  and  heals.  But  the 
divine  gift  is  free  to  her  only  when  she  is  free,  when  she  is  no 
longer  a  dumb  statue  of  modesty,  when  the  progress  of  years 
has  emancipated  her,  untied  her  tongue,  and  unfettered  her 
actions. 

In  a  moment  of  true  nobleness  and  magnanimity,  a  woman 


232  Woman  an  Angel  of  Peace. 

of  fine  genius  has  justly  described  and  appreciated  mature 
age,  and  even  the  approach  of  old  age,  which  no  woman  con- 
templates without  a  shudder.  This  formidable  period  seems 
to  her  to  have  its  own  charms — a  tranquil  grandeur  which 
youth  has  not. 

"Youth,''  she  says,  very  nearly  (I  regret  that  I  cannot 
recall  her  exact  words),  "is  an  Alpine  country,  full  of  sur- 
prises, with  its  rocks,  its  torrents,  its  cascades.  But  old 
age  is  a  majestic  French  garden,  with  noble  shadows  and 
beautiful  long  stretches  of  promenade,  wherein  we  may  see 
afar  off  the  friends  who  are  coming  to  meet  us — wide  walks, 
where  several  may  go  abreast  and  talk  together — indeed  a 
pleasant  place  for  social  converse." 

We  should  be  wrong  to  conclude  from  this  beautiful  com- 
parison that  old  age  is  samely  and  monotonous ;  it  is  just 
the  contrary.  Woman  has  privileges  then  which  she  has  not 
had  at  any  other  age.  The  customs  of  society  held  her  cap- 
tive ;  she  was  required  to  avoid  certain  conversations — certain 
associations  were  forbidden  her;  even  the  walks  of  charity 
were  often  difficult  and  dangerous  to  her.  An  unjust  world 
was  prone  to  speak  evil  of  her.  But  as  she  grows  old  she  is 
enfranchised,  and  enjoys  all  the  privileges  of  an  honest 
liberty.  The  result  is,  that  the  whole  scope  of  her  mind  is 
brought  into  play ;  she  thinks  and  speaks  in  an  original  and 
independent  manner.  Thus  she  becomes  herself. 

All  young  and  pretty  women  are  at  liberty  to  be  fools, 
because  they  are  always  sure  of  being  admired.  But  not  so 
with  the  old  woman.  She  must  have  wit ;  and  because  she 
has  it,  she  is  generally  agreeable  and  amusing. 

Madame  de  Sevigne  expresses  this  idea  very  prettily  (I 
quote  from  memory):  "Youth  and  spring,"  she  says,  "are 
green,  uniformly  green ;  but  we  autumnal  people  are  of  all 
colors." 

Such  a  wroman  has  it  in  her  power  to  exert,  on  all  around 
her,  those  amiable  social  influences  which  are  a  peculiarity  of 


Woman  an  Angel  of  Peace.  233 

France.  These,  in  fact,  are  but  manifestations  of  that  bene- 
volent and  sympathizing  disposition  which  puts  a  man  at  his 
ease,  which  lends  wit  even  to  those  who  have  it  not,  and  gives 
them  confidence,  overawing  the  gigglers,  who  take  thought- 
less pleasure  in  embarrassing  the  timid. 

This  royalty  of  goodness  nils  her  parlor  with  a  gentle  ra- 
diance. Especially  does  she  encourage  the  mairwhom  the  fine 
talkers  silence,  and  who,  under  the  protection  of  a  woman  of 
esprit,  who  lends  him  her  countenance,  assumes  a  modest 
confidence.  The  conversation  there  is  not  the  vacant  badi- 
nage we  find  everywhere  else,  that  eternal  gossip  in  which 
empty  heads  have  all  the  advantage.  When  some  well-in- 
formed man  has  stated  his  point  clearly,  without  prolixities  or 
pedantry,  she  adds  just  one  word  from  the  heart,  which  often 
makes  it  clearer  to  himself,  imparting  warmth  as  well  as  light 
to  what  he  has  said,  and  rendering  it  agreeable  and  easy  to 
understand.  Then  they  look  at  each  other,  and  smile,  and 
there  is  mutual  appreciation. 

We  are  not  sufficiently  sensible  of  the  fact  that  sometimes 
a  simple  word  from  a  woman  can  save  a  man,  and  raise  him 
up,  teach  him  to  respect  himself,  and  give  him  an  abiding 
strength,  which  until  then  he  had  not. 

I  one  day  saw  a  forlorn,  sickly  child,  with  a  timid,  sly,  pitiful 
countenance — and  yet  he  had  talent.  His  mother,  who  was  a 
hard  woman,  said  to  me:  "I  cannot  imagine  what  is  the 
matter  with  him." 

"I  can,  madam,"  I  replied;  "he  has  never  been  kissed" — 
and  that  was  only  too  true. 

Well,  in  Society,  that  capricious  mother  of  genius,  there  are 
many  who  fail  (and  not  the  smallest  number  either),  because 
they  have  never  been  kissed,  applauded,  encouraged.  No 
one  knows  how  this  happens.  No  one  has  a  grudge  against 
them ;  but  no  sooner  do  they  timidly  venture  a  word,  than 
every  one  turns  a  cold  shoulder  to  them ;  or  worse — they 
take  no  notice  of  it,  or  very  likely  laugh  at  it. 

\ 


234         Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships. 

Beware  lest  this  snubbed  and  flouted  stranger  be  an  angel 
of  genius  unawares.  Oh,  if  at  such  a  moment  some  woman, 
influential  by  her  wit,  her  grace,  her  culture,  had  caught  up 
the  remark  (often  forcible,  sometimes  profound),  as  it  escaped 
from  the  lips  of  the  pariah — if  taking  him  by  the  hand,  she  had 
distinguished  him,  and  shown  the  sneerers  and  the  jeerers 
that  this  pebble  was  a  diamond — what  a  change  would  have 
been  there.  Justified,  exalted,  triumphant,  he  would  soon 
have  shown  that  in  such  company  he  alone  was  a  man,  and 
the  rest — nothing. 


II. 

LAST  LOVE. — WOMEN'S  FRIENDSHIPS. 

THE  great  divorce  of  death  is  so  overwhelming  to  the  wife, 
left  alone  and  unconsoled,  it  is  so  bitter  to  her,  that  she  de- 
sires and  hopes  to  follow  her  husband  to  the  tomb.  "  It  will 
kill  me,"  she  says. 

But  alas !  it  is  but  rarely  that  she  can  die.  If  the  widow 
does  not  mount  the  funeral  pile  of  her  husband,  as  they  do 
in  India,  she  L  in  danger  of  surviving  him  a  long  time. 
Nature  seems  to  take  pleasure  in  humiliating  the  sincerest, 
and  doing  her  a  spite,  by  preserving  her  in  all  her  youth  and 
beauty.  The  physical  effects  of  grief  are  various,  even 
directly  opposed,  according  to  temperament.  I  have  seen  a 
lady  buried  in  grief  and  drowned  in  tears,  hopelessly  pros- 
trated for  life,  5  et  in  a  flourishing  plenitude  of  health.  Her 
entire  engrossment  in  her  sorrow,  her  fixity  of  grief,  had  lent 
her  beauty  what  it  lacked — a  lovely  luxury.  She  blushed, 
she  groaned  for  it,  and  the  shame  of  her  seeming  heartlessness 
added  to  her  despair. 

'Tis  a  decree  of  nature,  'tis  the  will  of  God,  that  this  pleas- 


Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships.        235 

ing  flower  shall  not  fade  and  die.  She  cries  for  death,  and  it 
will  not  come ;  life  is  thrust  upon  her ;  she  must  continue 
to  be  the  delight  of  the  world.  Even  he  whom  she  longs  to 
follow  forbids  the  sacrifice.  The  love  that  has  brought 
her  so  many  hopes  and  so  many  vows,  which  has  done  so  much 
to  develop  her  heart  and  make  her  an  individual,  would  not 
have  her  bury  it  all,  nor  take  it  out  of  the  world  with  her. 
If  it  is  true  love,  it  permits  her,  perhaps  even  enjoins  her,  to  love 
again.  Among  our  coast-people,  in  so  many  respects  superior, 
I  have  observed  two  things  :  that  the  wife,  often  anxious,  and 
always  thoughtful,  for  her  husband,  loAres  him  and  is  very  faithful 
to  him ;  but  as  soon  as  he  dies,  she  marries  again.  Among  our 
sailors  engaged  in  the  dangerous  American  fisheries — especially 
those  of  Granville,  that  town  of  brave  people  (where  there  are 
no  illegitimate  children  except  those  of  foreign  emigrants),  the 
woman  immediately  remarries  if  her  husband  does  not  return. 
The  step  is  necessary ;  otherwise  the  children  would  die. 
Should  the  dead  come  to  life  again,  he  is  content  that  his 
friend  has  adopted  and  supported  his  family. 

Even  if  there  were  no  children  to  bring  up,  it  is  impossible 
(if  only  in  gratitude)  that  he  who  had  loved  her,  whom  she 
had  rendered  happy,  could  wish  to  leave  her  always  unhappy. 
To-day  she  says  no  ;  and  she  sincerely  believes  that  she  will 
always  be  able  to  fortify  herself  by  sorrow  and  the  strength 
of  her  remembrance.  But  he,  who  knows  her  better  than 
she  knows  herself,  can  easily  foresee  that  a  violent  change 
in  all  her  feelings  and  habits  is  beyond  her  power,  that  she 
must  remain  desolate. 

Can  he  bear  to  look  into  the  future,  and  see  her  coming 
home  at  night,  to  find  no  one  there,  and  to  weep  by  her  cold 
and  lonely  hearth  ? 

If  he  reflects,  if  he  has  the  least  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, he  will  think  with  compassion  of  that  mysterious  suffer- 
ing which  we  treat  so  lightly,  but  which  physicians  describe 
and  deplore.  The  craving  for  love,  which,  in  a  blase  man, 


236         Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships. 

quickly  dies  out,  in  a  pure  woman,  on  the  contrary,  is  pro- 
longed, and  often  aggravated.  A  less  rapid  circulation,  a  life 
less  gay  and  less  cerebral,  less  diversified  by  fancy,  a  slight 
embonpoint,  by  which  (even  in  spite  of  her  fasting  and  her 
tears)  she  is  strengthened  and  beautified — all  this  agitates 
and  oppresses  her. 

The  determinations  of  blood  to  the  head,  the  extreme  ner- 
vous excitements,  the  dwelling  on  the  past,  by  which  they 
have  profited  so  little,  fill  their  lives  with  pains  and  humilia- 
tions, which  are  their  secret ;  they  are  martyrs  to  their  own 
unprofitable  reveries.  Punished  by  their  very  virtue,  and  their 
postponed  duty,  they  too  often  become  victims  to  the  cruel 
diseases  of  their  time  of  life.  Or  perhaps  the  poor  lonesome 
creatures,  toys  of  fate,  for  all  their  strictness,  fall  into  some 
sudden  shame,  at  which  the  world  ruthlessly  laughs. 

He  who  has  loved  his  wife  and  is  dying  now,  should  look  into 
the  future  for  her ;  for  he  can  see  better  than  she  can,  through 
her  tears.  He  should  foresee  and  prepare  for  her,  should  im- 
pose no  obligations  upon  her,  but  rather  deliver  her  from  her 
scruples — should  even,  magnanimously,  constitute  himself  her 
father,  to  liberate  the  dear  child,  to  direct  and  instruct  her 
beforehand,  and  arrange  her  future  life  for  her. 

Thus  the  first  union  is  never  quite  dissolved.  It  is  main- 
tained by  obedience,  by  gratitude  and  affection.  If  she  mar- 
ries again,  far  from  forgetting  him,  on  the  contrary  living  by 
his  law,  in  the  calm  of  her  heart  she  says  to  herself,  I  did 
what  he  wished ;  whatever  happiness  is  mine  now  I  owe  to 
him.  To  his  forethought  I  am  indebted  for  the  consolations 
and  the  tranquillity  of  the  last  love. 

It  is  for  the  highest  interest  of  the  widow,  if  she  must  re- 
sign herself  to  a  second  marriage,  to  take  the  nearest — I  do 
not  mean  the  next  of  kin,  as  in  the  Jewish  law — but  the  kin- 
dred spirit.  I  mean  one  who  loved  the  dead,  one  who  was 
part  and  parcel  of  the  husband's  own  soul,  and  for  whom,  the 
widow,  from  the  very  fact  that  she  once  belonged  to  him, 


Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships.        237 

far  from  losing,  on  the  contrary  possesses  additional  charms 
That  power  of  transformation,  inherent  in  marriage,  through 
which  the  woman  at  length  contains  physically  and  morally 
another  existence,  would  perhaps  distress  the  irreproachable 
wife,  if  the  second  husband  were  not  identical  with  the  first 
in  love  and  friendship. 

Why  is  the  widow  generally  prettier  than  the  young  girl  ? 
Some  one  has  said, "  because  Love  has  passed  over  her." 
But  he  should  also  have  said  because  "  love  still  abides  with 
her  ;"  we  see  in  her  its  beautifying  traces.  In  cultivating  such 
a  flower  time  has  not  been  wasted.  Promising  but  little  in  the 
bud,  love  has  created  from  it  a  rose,  a  hundred-leaved  rose,  in 
each  leaf  a  seductive  charm.  She  is  all  grace,  all  soul.  Does 
possession  detract  from  her  attractions  ?  No,  it  rather  adds 
to  them.  If  she  was  happy  while  watched  over  by  a  worthy 
heart,  render  her  happy  again.  In  the  brilliant  freshness  of  her 
middle  age,  so  much  richer,  you  will  have  little  cause  to  re- 
gret the  meagre,  frail  beauty  of  her  first  youth.  Maidenhood, 
itself,  blooms  again  in  a  pure  woman  whom  a  tranquil  life  has 
consoled  and  beautified.  She  is  innocently  attuned  to  the 
harmony  of  her  two  loves. 

Has  a  man  only  one  life,  has  the  soul  but  one  mode  of  per- 
petuating itself  ?  Apart  from  the  persistent  influence  of  our 
immortal  energy,  do  we  not  at  the  same  time  bestow  some 
emanation  from  ourselves,  upon  the  friends  who  receive  our 
thoughts,  and  sometimes  prolong  the  dearest  affections  of  our 
hearts  ?  The  glowing  historian  who  inherited  the  last  love 
of  his  master,  Bernardin  de  Saint  Pierre,  caught  a  reflection 
from  him  ;  and  in  the  critical  austerity  of  an  eminent  historian 
of  our  own  time,  one  may  recognise  a  great  inheritance,  if  it 
be  true  that  he  had  the  glorious  happiness  of  communicating 
with  the  soul  of  the  eighteenth  century,  in  the  person  of  Ma- 
dame de  Condorcet. 

Many,  either  already  aged  or  perfectly  free  from  the  re- 
straints of  youth,  would  not  accept  a  second  marringe. 


238         Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships. 

An  adoption  satisfies  them. 

The  widow  can  perpetuate  the  soul  of  her  first  husband  in 
an  adopted  son,  whom  he  may  have  recommended  to  her. 
Such  an  interest  will  fill  her  heart,  and  give  her  an*object  in 
life.  There  are  so  many  children  without  parents,  so  many 
whose  parents  are  far  away.  We  do  not  realize  how  much, 
in  our  severe  schools,  a  forlorn  child  has  need  of  a  woman's 
pity.  For  a  lad  lost  in  one  of  those  immense  colleges  which 
are  almost  armies,  the  best  of  good  genii  is  a  lady  to  keep  a 
maternal  eye  upon  him,  to  visit  and  comfort  him,  to  intercede 
for  him  when  he  is  punished,  above  all  to  take  him  out  into  the 
fields  and  walk  with  him,  and  teach  him,  more  perhaps  than  he 
would  learn  in  a  week's  study,  and  to  watch  his  play  and  choose 
his  playmates.  She  will  be  still  more  useful  to  him  when  he 
is  transferred  to  the  high  schools.  She  will  preserve  him  there 
from  many  perils  that  even  a  mother  could  not  avert ;  for  he 
will  confide  to  her  a  thousand  things  of  which  his  more  timid 
mother  would  never  have  known.  Her  skilful  tact  will  guide 
him  safely  through  that  intermediate  epoch,  when  the  blind 
fury  of  indulgence  sometimes  ruins  the  man. 

A  delicate  mission,  in  truth,  which  often  imparts  to  the 
young  man  an  admirable  refinement,  though  a  little  effeminate 
perhaps — but  which,  on  the  other  hand,  sometimes  steeps  a 
poor  woman's  heart  in  bitterness.  She  finds  it  difficult  to  re- 
gard herself  altogether  as  his  mother;  and  sometimes  she 
loves  him  with  a  different  love.  For  her  own  sake,  I  would 
that  this  good  and  tender  creature  would  devote  herself  rather 
to  the  maternal  protection  of  a  class,  the  most  unhappy  and 
the  least  consoled — I  speak  of  women  themselves. 

Women,  who  so  well  know  what  women  suffer,  should  love 
and  help  each  other.  But  they  do  not ;  their  rivalries,  their 
jealousies  are  so  very  strong — an  instinctive  hostility,  which 
even  survives  youth.  Few  ladies  can  forgive  a  poor  work- 
woman, or  a  servant,  for  being  young  and  pretty;  and  thus 
they  deprive  themselves  of  a  very  sweet  privilege  which  be- 


Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships.         239 

longs  to  their  condition,  and  is  worth  almost  as  much  as  love 
itself — that  of  protecting  love.  Their  happiness  should  be  to 
instruct  and  advise  the  lovers,  to  bring  them  together,  to 
make  the  poor  workman  understand  that  his  cafe  habits  are 
more  expensive  and  every  way  less  agreeable  than  domestic 
life.  A  word  from  an  influential  person  will  frequently  pro- 
mote or  strengthen  love.  Often  have  I  seen  a  husband,  who 
imagined  that  he  was  sick  and  tired  of  his  wife,  thus  reclaimed ; 
a  word  in  her  praise  overheard  by  chance,  a  gesture  of  admir- 
ation accidentally  observed,  some  exclamation  of  a  third  per- 
son in  envy  of  his  happiness — either  of  these  sufficed  to  show 
him,  what  everybody  else  saw,  that  she  was  more  charming 
than  ever,  to  arouse  his  heart  which  only  slept,  and  to  remind 
him  that  he  had  always  loved  her. 

There  are  in  every  household  critical  hours,  which  a  saga 
cious  female  friend  may  perceive  or  divine,  and  wherein  she  can 
happily  interpose.  She  "confesses"  without  confessing  the 
young  woman,  directs  without  directing ;  and  when  the  wife 
comes  to  her,  with  her  heart  swollen,  dumb,  and  fast  locked 
on  its  own  trouble,  she  gently  unlocks  it,  unlaces  it.  And 
then  the  trouble  bursts  forth — some  severity  of  her  husband, 
his  little  regard  for  her — while  another,  on  the  contrary — the 
rest  may  be  conjectured.  At  such  a  time  her  friend  will  enfold 
her,  and  take  possession  of  her.  It  is  easy  enough,  for  a  wo- 
man of  intelligence  and  experience,  to  take  the  weeping  child 
to  her  bosom,  to  restrain  her,  to  dispossess  her  for  a  while  of 
her  right  over  herself.  The  unforeseen  happiness  of  finding 
a  mother  again  may  save  the  young  wife  from  some  foolish 
step,  from  some  reckless  vengeance  which  she  would  for  ever 
regret. 

Sometimes  with  true  pride  she  will  not  deign  to  revenge 
herself  thus.  She  demands  a  separation — a  course  too  often 
pursued  now-a-days.  Indignant  at  the  first  manifestations  of 
folly  in  her  high-spirited  young  husband,  which  a  few  quiet 
words  would  have  cured,  the  wife,  especially  if  she  be  rich. 


240         Last  Love. — Women's  Friendships. 

Avill  listen  to  nothing,  will  wait  for  nothing,  but  flies  into  a 
passion,  and  insists  on  going  home.  Her  influential  family 
take  her  part,  and  the  servants,  her  own  creatures,  testify 
against  her  husband.  She  will  have  her  dowry  back,  but  not 
her  liberty;  though  still  so  young,  she  is  virtually  a  widow. 
And  can  she  take  back  the  intimacies  she  has  shared,  that 
definite  communion  which  involved  the  yielding  of  her  per- 
son, and  which  transformed  her?  Alas,  no!  that  she  can 
never  take  back,  more's  the  pity !  Is  there,  then,  indeed  no 
alternative — cannot  the  young  man  be  reclaimed?  His  faults 
belong  only  to  his  age,  he  is  neither  wicked  nor  avaricious. 
Let  her  parents  have  her  dowry  then  ;  it  is  she  alone  whom  he 
loves  and  regrets.  He  sees  plainly  and,  especially  since  he  is 
separated  from  her,  that  he  can  never  find  another  to  please 
him.  And  in  her  very  pride,  so  fatal  to  their  happiness,  is 
there  not  something  to  attract  love  ? 

"  Love !  we  have  nothing  but  love  in  this  world.  To-morrow 
we  must  die ;  love  then  to-day,  for  I  know  you  still  love  each 
other !" 

This  is  what  her  thoughtful  friend  says  to  her,  and  she  does 
more  than  she  says.  While  she  caresses  and  consoles  the  little 
wife  at  her  country-house,  she  attires  her  one  day,  whether  or 
no,  and  makes  her  beautiful.  Visitors  are  coming.  But  for 
her  only  one  is  coming,  and  who  is  he?  Guess,  if  you  can. 
"The  husband?"  No,  a  lover.  In  countenance  perhaps  they 
may  resemble,  but  in  soul  they  are  quite  different  persons.  If 
it  were  the  husband,  would  he  manifest  such  a  charming  em- 
barrassment, so  much  love  and  ardor,  so  violent  a  return  of 
passion?  Well,  why  don't  they  explain  themselves?  Neither 
knows  what  to  say ;  they  stammer,  they  promise,  they  protest 
— in  short,  both  have  lost  their  wits. 

Their  friend  laughs,  and  tells  them  they  haven't  even  com- 
mon sense  left.  It  is  late ;  supper  is  soon  over,  for  "  she  has  a 
headache,''  she  cannot  entertain  them,  and  they  are  very  will- 
ing to  excuse  her,  themselves  so  exhausted  with  emotion.  The 


Woman  Protecting  Woman.  241 

new  lovers  may  safely  be  left  alone  now,  no  danger  that  they 
will  quarrel.  Give  them  a  hearing  at  your  earliest  conveni- 
ence, but  now — let  them  repose. 

And  does  it  end  here  ?  No.  The  amiable  friend  who  has 
re-united  them  is  determined  that  the  storm  shall  not  again 
cloud  their  horizon.  So  she  extracts  from  them  two  promises. 
First,  that  they  will  abandon  the  influences  hi  which  this  storm 
was  brewed,  for  such  misunderstandings  do  not  often  arise  be- 
tween those  who  love,  except  from  outside  influences.  If  one 
of  the  married  pair  commits  an  indiscretion  it  is  almost  always 
exaggerated  by  the  interference  of  some  unlucky  friend,  from 
whom  they  must  get  away.  Change  of  place  will  sometimes 
effect  a  change  in  everything  else. 

Another  prevailing  evil,  which  the  friend  will  seek  to  re- 
medy, is  want  of  occupation.  An  idle,  vacant  existence  is 
necessarily  productive  of  melancholy,  morbid  reveries,  and  bad 
temper.  To  blend  their  souls  and  lives  together,  the  husband 
and  wife  should  co-operate,  should  work  together  as  much  as 
they  can — but  at  all  events  work ;  when  apart,  each  will  regret 
the  other,  and  suffer  a  little  for  being  separated ;  and  in  that 
way  they  will  continue  to  desire  each  other — full  of  impatience 
for  the  hour  when  they  shall  meet,  and  longing  for  the  coming 
of  night. 


III. 

WOMAN    PROTECTING    WOMAN. CAROLINE    CHISHOLM. 

THE  fifth  part  of  the  world,  Australia,  has,  up  to  this  time 
only  one  saint,  one  legend — an  English  woman,  who  died  I 
believe  this  year. 

Without  fortune  or  assistance,  she  achieved  more  for  that 

11 


242  Woman  Protecting  Woman. 

new  world  than  the  British  government  and  all  its  Emigration 
societies.  The  richest  and  most  powerful  among  the  king- 
doms of  the  earth,  mistress  of  the  Indies  and  an  empire  of 
a  hundred  and  twenty  millions  of  men,  failed  in  the  coloniza- 
tion which  was  to  have  redeemed  her  losses,  while  an  unpre- 
tending woman  succeeded  and  carried  the  affair  by  her  own 
intrepid  courage. 

And  in  her  let  us  render  homage  to  her  persevering  race. 
A  French  or  German  woman  might  have  possessed  equal  cou- 
rage, and  generous  pity ;  but  I  doubt  if  she  would  have  per- 
sisted against  so  many  obstacles  with  such  admirable  stub- 
bornness in  a  good  cause — such  sublime  obstinacy. 

Caroline  Jones  was  born  about  1800,  on  a  farm  in  Nor- 
thampton county.  At  twenty  she  was  married  to  an  officer 
in  the  East  India  Company,  and  accompanied  him  to  India. 
Brought  up  in  the  decent,  serious  orthodoxy  of  English  coun- 
try life,  her  lot  was  cast  in  those  military  Babylons  where 
license  has  full  sway.  The  orphan  daughters  of  the  soldiers 
were  for  sale  in  the  streets  of  Madras ;  she  collected  them, 
and  filled  her  house  with  them ;  and  in  defiance  of  ridicule, 
continued  her  charitable  worlq  till  her  dwelling  became  a 
royal  orphan  asylum. 

The  health  of  her  husband,  Captain  Chisholm,  demanding  a 
change  of  climate,  he  obtained  leave  to  recruit  for  a  season  in 
Australia,  and  went  there  in  1838,  taking  his  wife  and  chil- 
dren. But  soon  obliged  to  return  to  his  post,  he  left  her 
there  alone ;  and  it  was  then  that  she  began  her  courageous 
enterprise. 

Everybody  knows  that  Sidney  and  Australia  were  princi- 
pally peopled  by  convicts,  and  criminals  of  a  class  that  with 
us  would  be  convicts.  Constant  transportations  took  crowds 
of  men  there,  but  comparatively  few  women.  You  may 
imagine  how  much  these  few  were  sought  after,  and  pursued. 
Every  vessel  that  arrived  loaded  with  women,  was  waited  for 
at  the  landing,  and  saluted  with  wild  rejoicings,  clamorous  as 


Woman  Protecting  Woman.  243 

the  cries  of  famine.  The  most  violent  and  revolting  assaults 
were  common ;  even  the  wives  of  the  men  employed  on  the 
island  were  not  safe  in  their  husbands'  absence;  and  as  for 
the  transported  girl,  she  fell  among  the  crowd  like  game 
that  they  got  on  the  scent  of  again. 

To  appreciate  the  horrors  of  such  a  situation,  you  must 
know  what  an  English  woman  is.  She  has  none  of  the  address, 
the  internal  resources,  the  expedients,  which  characterize  our 
women.  She  does  not  know  how  to  work ;  she  has  absolutely 
no  capacity  for  any  duties  except  the  care  of  children  and 
housekeeping.  She  is  very  dependent  and  modest,  as  she  has 
no  dowry.  Married,  she  is  often  beaten ;  while  if  not  mar- 
ried she  is  a  wretched  creature,  without  self-reliance,  continu- 
ally alarmed,  and  continually  getting  into  trouble ;  morally, 
she  is  always  falling  down  and  hurting  herself.  Somebody 
has  called  her  "  a  lost  dog,"  that  runs  about  looking  for  his 
master,  and  don't  know  how  to  make  one  for  himself. 

Even  the  filles  publiques  of  England  are  more  to  be  pitied 
than  ours.  The  French  girl  of  this  unfortunate  class,  pro- 
tects herself  by  irony,  and  can  make  herself  in  a  manner  re- 
spected ;  but  the  English  girl  has  not  the  least  resource,  the 
least  defence  against  her  shame,  not  a  word  to  say — only  the 
Irish  women  know  how  to  talk.  She  endures  her  moral 
abasement  by  drinking  gin  every  fifteen  minutes,  which  keeps 
her  in  a  half  stupid  state,  so  that  she  hardly  knows  when  she 
is  insulted. 

Alas !  girls  of  only  twelve  or  fifteen,  driven  to  this  mode 
of  life,  and  to  petty  thieving,  constituted  a  large  proportion 
of  those  arrested  by  the  police,  and  sent  with  hasty  trials  to 
Australia.  They  often  crowded  them  into  old  vessels  like  the 
Ocean,  which  foundered  off  Calais,  and  cast  upon  our  shores 
four  hundred  corpses  of  women — almost  all  so  very  young  and 
pretty,  that  they  who  saw  them  wept  and  tore  their  hair  at 
the  sight. 

We  can  guess  what  became  of  such  a  human  flock,  helpless 


244  Woman  Protecting  Woman. 

as  young  lambs,  driven  into  that  community  of  convicts. 
Pursued  in  the  streets  of  Sidney,  they  only  escaped  continual 
outrage  by  going  outside  of  the  town  at  night,  to  sleep  on 
the  rocks,  under  the  beautiful  stars. 

Caroline  was  insulted,  both  as  to  her  woman's  heart  and 
her  English  modesty,  by  this  revolting  spectacle.  She  ap- 
pealed to  the  authorities :  but  they,  wholly  occupied  with  the 
surveillance  of  so  many  dangerous  men,  had  too  much  to  do 
to  trouble  themselves  about  those  miserable  women.  She 
appealed  to  the  clergy :  but  the  English  Church,  like  every- 
thing English,  believes  too  much  in  the  inherent  depravity 
of  human  nature,  to  repose  confidence  in  human  remedies. 
She  appealed  to  the  press,  and  provoked  from  the  journals 
ironical  answers. 

Yet  so  positively  she  insisted  that  it  should  not  cost  a  cent, 
that  finally  the  government  magnificently  placed  at  her  dis- 
posal an  old  magazine.  In  this  she  immediately  gave  shelter 
to  one  hundred  girls,  who  thus  had  at  least  a  roof  over  their 
heads.  Married  women,  in  the  absence  of  their  husbands, 
were  permitted  to  encamp  in  the  court,  to  be  out  of  the  reach 
of  night  attacks. 

But  how  to  feed  this  troupe  of  girls,  most  of  whom  could  do 
nothing,  Caroline,  a  plain  captain's  wife,  and  burdened  with 
three  children,  was  sorely  at  a  loss.  So  she  explored  the  coun- 
try for  married  people  with  families,  who  would  employ  them, 
and  thus  made  room  for  more.  In  less  than  a  year  she  had 
saved  seven  hundred  girls :  three  hundred  English  Protestants, 
arnd  four  hundred  Irish  Catholics.  Many  of  these  married,  and 
in  their  turn  threw  open  their  own  homes  to  their  poor  trans- 
ported sisters. 

Having  supplied  all  the  families  near  Sidney,  she  had  to  go 
farther  for  asylums.  Travelling  is  scarcely  practicable  for  a 
young  woman  in  a  country  thus  peopled,  where  the  dwellings, 
often  many  miles  apart,  render  all  public  oversight  and  pro- 
tection impossible.  But  she  was  not  afraid ;  mounted  on  a 


Woman  Protecting  Woman.  245 

good  1  orse,  which  she  called  "  Captain"  (in  remembrance  of 
her  absent  husband),  she  set  out  in  search  of  charity,  travelling 
by  the  roads  sometimes,  but  often  where  there  were  none,  and 
frequently  crossing  rapids.  The  boldest  feature  of  these  jour 
neys  was  that  she  took  her  young  girls  with  her,  sometimes 
as  many  as  sixty,  to  hire  them  as  servants  in  families,  or  tc 
marry  them.  She  was  everywhere  received,  by  men  not  so 
bad  as  they  seemed,  as  a  very  Providence,  with  love  and  reve- 
rence. But  she  never  slept  except  in  a  sure  place,  and  always 
with  her  girls,  preferring  to  pass  the  night  in  her  badly- 
covered  wagons,  to  being  separated  from  them.  Then  the 
people  began  to  perceive  the  grandeur,  the  beauty  of  her  en- 
terprise. Up  to  that  time  they  had  done  nothing;  everything 
was  in  a  transition  state,  for  they  had  continually  renewed 
their  fruitless  colonies  only  to  see  them  again  and  again  de- 
stroyed. Moreover,  there  was  no  improvement  in  intelligence, 
manners,  or  customs  among  them.  Vice  remained  vice ;  pros- 
titution was  even  more  shameful  and  wasteful  than  in  Lon- 
don. The  revolution  effected  by  this  excellent  woman  may 
be  thus  summed  up:  Death  to  sterility,  and  to  unchaste 
bachelorism  ! 

The  Governor  had  replied  to  the  first  petitions  she  addressed 
to  him,  "How  does  it  concern  me  ?  Is  it  my  business  to  find 
wives  for  them  ?  "  And  yet  everything  depended  upon  that ; 
for  it  contained  the  secret  of  life,  of  progress,  for  that  new 
world.  So  this  woman,  chaste  and  holy  before  all  men,  did 
not  hesitate  to  constitute  herself  the  universal  match-maker 
of  the  colony,  a  very  minister  of  marriage.  She  endeavored 
to  advise  judiciously  as  to  choice  in  these  hasty  matches.  But 
wha£  could  she  do?  She  believed  that  in  complete  solitude, 
where  there  was  no  third  person  to  intrigue  and  make  mis- 
chief, kind  nature  would  arrange  everything — the  pair  would 
try  to  love  each  other ;  in  time  they  would  become  attached, 
and  they  would  end  by  adoring  each  other. 

Especially  did  she  endeavor  to  bring  families  together  again 


246  Woman  Protecting  Woman. 

She  would  assist  a  young  girl,  who  was  well  married,  and 
mistress  of  a  house,  to  send  for  her  parents.  She  also  sent  to 
England  for  unfortunate  needle-women,  who  were  dying  there 
of  hunger,  as  ours  are  to-day.  And  for  her  recompense,  they 
came  near  killing  her.  The  populace  of  Sidney  were  indig- 
nant because  she  brought  out  so  many  emigrants,  which 
reduced  their  wages.  Bands  of  ruffians  collected  under  her 
windows  and  demanded  her  life,  but  she  courageously  ap- 
peared before  them,  talked  to  them,  and  made  them  listen  to 
reason.  They  retired,  full  of  respect  for  her. 

At  the  expiration  of  seven  years  she  went  to  London  to 
convert  the  ministry  to  her  ideas,  and  gave  a  course  of 
lectures  to  diffuse  them.  Lord  Grey,  the  minister,  and  the 
committees  of  the  House  of  Lords,  saw  fit  to  give  her 
audience,  and  consult  with  her.  Her  husband  became  her  first 
disciple,  and  returned  alone  to  Australia — a  rare  and  beautiful 
circumstance.  This  couple,  so  attached  to  each  other,  imposed 
upon  themselves  a  painful  separation  for  the  sake  of  doing 
the  more  good.  She  was  on  her  way  to  rejoin  him  when  she 
fell  ill,  and  it  is  said  mortally.  (Blosseville,  ii,  170,  1859.) 

Hers  is  one  of  the  world's  stories,  and  her  memory  will 
grow  the  brighter  with  time. 

One  peculiarity  which  we  must  not  overlook,  is  that  this 
inspired  woman  was  of  a  most  practical  mind,  wholly  devoid 
of  chimeras  and  exaggerations.  She  had,  in  the  highest 
degree,  the  executive  talent ;  did  all  her  own  writing,  and  kept 
in  order  endless  details  of  business  and  personal  accounts,  with 
the  utmost  exactness.  And  here  follows  a  trait  of  character 
purely  English :  Believing  herself  responsible  to  her  husband 
and  children  for  the  small  family  patrimony,  she  estimated 
that,  on  the  whole,  notwithstanding  the  large  advances 
she  had  made,  all  had  been  returned  to  her  except  a  very 
trifling  sum.  During  her  entire  apostleship,  she  had  impo- 
verished her  family  only  to  the  amount  of  sixteen  pounds. 
That  was  not  dear  for  the  making  of  a  world. 


Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women.       247 
IV. 

CONSOLATION    FOR    IMPRISONED    WOMEN. 

IN  her  Memoires,  approved  by  the  Institute,  Madame  Mal- 
let said,  in  1845:  "Ten  thousand  women  enter  our  French 
prisons  every  year.  The  worst  criminals  are  treated  best ; 
for  they  occupy  the  central  establishments.  The  less  guilty, 
to  the  number  of  eight  thousand,  are  placed  in  branch  pri- 
sons— damp,  dilapidated  convents,  where  they  live  in  forlorn, 
corrupting  idleness,  without  work,  without  linen,  and  some- 
times without  beds."  Let  us  hope  that  since  that  time  they 
are  better  provided  for. 

Even  in  1840  they  were  guarded  by  men !  and  to  this  day 
a  woman  arrested  and  put  in  durance,  is  under  the  protection 
of  the  wisdom  of  ten  boys,  twenty  years  old.  (See  the  sad 
case  of  Oslinda,  tried  14th  of  September,  1858.)  In  the 
general  account  of  crimes  and  offences,  the  women  number 
very  few  (seventeen  in  a  hundred) — a  remarkable  fact,  seeing 
that  women  earn  much  less  than  men,  and  are,  therefore, 
more  tempted  by  poverty.  When  we  examine,  with  Madame 
Mallet,  into  the  details  of  trials,  this  number  still  further 
diminishes,  and  in  great  part  disappears.  The  majority  of 
these  crimes  or  misdemeanors  are  involuntary.  In  some 
instances,  prostitute  mothers  beat  their  children  of  twelve 
years,  or  knock  their  teeth  out  with  blows  of  their  fists,  to 
compel  them  to  go  on  the  streets,  and  steal.  In  others,  it  is 
the  lover,  who,  though  he  does  not  commit  the  crime  himself, 
causes  it  to  be  committed,  by  forcing  the  woman  to  steal  for 
his  benefit :  if  she  refuses  he  breaks  a  stick  over  her  back. 
With  some,  it  is  hunger  alone  that  drives  them  into  evil 
ways ;  with  others,  it  is  goodness  of  heart,  and  even  piety — 
for  they  prostitute  themselves  to  maintain  their  parents,  arid 
their  vices  are  entitled  to  the  rewards  of  virtue. 


248       Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women. 

Most  of  them  are  good,  affectionate,  charitable  creatures. 
The  poor  are  well  aware  of  that,  and  appeal  to  them  with 
confidence  and  from  choice.  Among  these  dregs  of  the  city, 
there  is  abundant  benevolence;  in  the  country,  on  the  con 
trary,  much  cruelty — the  people  give  a  little  lest  they  should 
be  burned  out ;  but  they  let  their  parents  die  of  hunger. 

The  true  and  frequent  cause,  which  drives  these  women  to 
vice,  and  even  to  crime,  is  the  ennui  and  sadness  of  their 
lives.  Virtue,  for  a  poor  girl,  means,  to  sit  fourteen  hours 
a-day  making  the  same  stitch  for  ten  sous — her  head  down, 
her  chest  bent,  her  bench  hot  and  tiresome.  Sedet  ceternum- 
que  sedebit.  Add  to  this,  in  winter,  that  miserable  charcoal- 
pan,  all  the  fuel  she  has,  though  shivering  with  cold — which 
is  the  cause  of  so  many  diseases.  One  fifth  of  all  the  female 
criminals  are  seamstresses. 

Woman,  poor  child  that  she  is,  requires  constant  moving 
about,  constant  change  of  position ;  every  new  sensation  is 
delightful  to  her.  Still  she  does  not  need  much  novelty  to 
make  her  happy.  Her  paradise  is  in  the  trifling  variety  that 
the  household  affords  her,  with  its  many  little  cares,  and  the 
rearing  of  children.  Love  her — make  her  life  a  little  more 
pleasant,  a  little  less  fatiguing,  and  she  will  do  no  evil.  Take 
out  of  her  fingers,  for  at  least  a  few  hours  in  the  day,  the 
everlasting  needle,  that  penance  of  eternal  monotony.  Which 
of  us  could  endure  it  ? 


Madame  Mallet  has  thoroughly  explored  our  prisons,  for 
which  she  is  greatly  to  be  praised.  Would  that  more  of  our 
ladies  would  imitate  her,  that  they  would  overcome  their 
repugnance,  and  enter  that  hell,  which,  bad  as  it  is,  contains 
many  angels — fallen  angels — some  of  them  nearer  heaven  than 
your  comfortable  saint. 

The  defect  of  her  good  book,  is  its  timidity,  its  caution 


Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women.        24-; 

She  approves,  and  she  does  not  approve,  religious  superin- 
tendence. She  follows  the  custom  of  the  time  and  the  opinion 
of  its  judges,  for  the  most  part  favorable  to  the  "cellular" 
system,  which  produces,  by  its  deficiency  of  air  and  light, 
emaciated  and  entirely  artificial  beings. 

The  remedy,  on  the  contrary,  is  to  tear  down  the  walls,  and 
to  let  in  fresh  air  and  sunshine ;  for  light  moralizes. 

Another  remedy  is  labor,  under  very  different  conditions — 
severe,  but  somewhat  varied,  and  lightened  with  music.  (This 
plan  has  been  successful  in  Paris,  through  the  liberality  of 
some  Protestant  ladies.)  Imprisoned  women  are  crazy  for 
music ;  it  soothes  them,  restores  their  moral  equilibrium,  and 
calms  their  heart-burnings. 

Leon  Faucher  has  wisely  said,  that  "  Prisoners  from  the 
country,  men  and  women,  should  be  put  to  field  labor,  not 
immured  in  your  horrible  walls,  which  are  only  consumption 
factories.  Yes,  set  the  peasant  to  tilling  the  earth  again — in 
Algeria  at  least."  I  would  add,  that  even  the  working  woman 
can  be  very  profitably  colonized  under  a  semi-agricultural  sys- 
tem, where,  several  hours  in  the  day,  she  might  do  a  little 
gardening,  which  would  contribute  to  her  support. 

We  have  no  need  of  costly  penitentiaries  at  the  antipodes, 
as  the  English  have.  Let  us  colonize  the  shores  of  the  Medi- 
terranean. Africa  supported  the  Empire ;  and  she  will  again 
be  populous  and  fruitful,  from  the  day  that  we  seriously  try 
to  render  her  healthy. 

But  the  great,  the  decisive,  the  sovereign  remedy,  is — love 
and  marriage. 

"  Marriage !  and  who  would  desire  that  ?"  Many  a  thought- 
ful person. 

Broussais  said :  "  The  disease  which  is  excess  of  strength 
in  one  man  may  be  weakness  in  another ;  or  in  a  different 
temperament,  and  under  different  physical  circumstances,  it  i? 
no  longer  disease." 

I  also  think  that  a  person  who,  in  the  suffocation  of  our  cities, 

11* 


250        Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women. 

and  in  a  society  so  contracted,  has  sinned  by  violence  and  ex 
cess  of  strength,  would  be  precisely  in  the  right  place,  and 
perhaps  estimable,  in  the  freedom  of  the  Atlas,  or  the  adven- 
turous life  of  a  military  colony.  Madame  Mallet  remarks, 
that  "  In  general,  passionate  women,  who,  excited  by  rage  or 
jealousy,  have  committed  a  criminal  act,  are  not  at  all  de- 
praved." Place  them,  then,  where  they  may  healthily  expend 
their  energy  ;  they  would  concentrate  it  on  love  and  a  family, 
and  become  the  veriest  lambs  of  gentleness. 

And  those  martyrs,  those  saints  of  prostitution,  who  have 
yielded  from  filial  piety  or  maternal  love — who  will  believe 
them  irredeemable  ?  Ah  !  those  unfortunates,  on  whom  vir- 
tue itself  has  inflicted  such  tortures,  may  be  virgins  among 
the  purest.  Their  broken  but  pure  hearts,  more  than  any 
other  woman's,  long  for  honor  and  love ;  and  none  have  a 
better  right  to  be  loved. 

Even  the  truly  guilty,  if  they  are  sent  out  of  Europe,  and 
placed  under  a  new  sky,  in  a  land  which  knows  nothing  of 
their  faults — if  they  feel  that  Society,  though  a  mother  who 
punishes,  is  still  a  mother — if  they  see,  at  the  end  of  their  trial, 
forgetfulness  of  the  past,  and  love  perhaps — their  hearts  will 
melt,  and  in  their  abundant  tears  they  will  be  purified. 

When  I  behold  those  bald  Mediterranean  shores,  those 
mountains,  arid  indeed,  but  which,  retaining  their  springs,  may 
always  be  re  wooded,  I  feel  that  twenty  new  nations  might  be 
founded  there  with  little  difficulty.  Instead  of  returning 
home  a  miserable  workman,  our  soldier  may  become  a  pro- 
prietor in  Africa  or  Asia.  He  will  like  much  better  to  take, 
as  a  wife  and  helpmeet,  not  some  statue  from  the  Orient,  but 
a  true  living  wife,  a  soul  and  a  mind,  an  energetic  French 
woman,  softened  by  trial  and  pretty  with  happiness. 

This  is  my  romance  for  the  future.  It  pre-supposes,  I  con- 
fess, one  condition — that  Medicine  will  busy  itself  with  the 
great  objects  of  this  century:  the  art  of  acclimating  man, 
and  of  improving  races  by  intermarrying  among  different 


Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women.        251 

nations,  the  .irfc  of  harmonizing  families  by  associating  dif- 
ferent races,  conditions,  and  temperaments.  It  requires 
more  skill  to  contract  marriages  for  us  than  for  those  English 
— such  as  the  marriages  that  Caroline  Chisholm  improvised. 
I  long  for  a  French  Caroline  here,  who,  surrounded  by  the 
aids  of  science,  and  enlightened  by  physicians,  would  skilfully 
place  liberated  women  in  the  most  advantageous  positions. 
For  example,  if  the  passionate  woman  is  married,  in  the  ex- 
citing air  of  the  mountains,  to  a  violent  man,  we  must  anti- 
cipate renewed  excesses  on  her  part ;  mate  her  rather  in 
the  plain  with  a  quiet  man,  whose  gentle  force  and  noiseless 
energy  she  will  respect. 

These  are  the  only  reliable  remedies.  The  present  plan 
improves  nothing ;  the  authorities  admit  that  it  multiplies 
offenders.  (Mallet.)  The  silence  imposed  upon  them  in  the 
central  prisons  is  torture  to  the  women ;  many  become  insane 
from  it.  And  what  does  this  lady  propose  ?  To  aggravate 
this  evil,  which  makes  maniacs,  by  putting  them  into  cells,  to 
be  catechised  by  a  chaplain. 

In  general,  what  could  he  bring  to  bear  upon  them  but 
vague  generalities?  He  does  not  vary  his  discourse  ac- 
cording to  the  class  and  person.  The  work-woman  is  only 
bored  by  it ;  the  peasant  woman  does  not  understand  a  word. 
Should  one  address  a  vicious  girl,  hardened  in  guilt,  in  the 
same  words  that  he  uses  to  a  quick-tempered  girl,  in  nowise 
vicious,  who  has  struck  one  unlucky  blow  ?  Is  even  the  best 
chaplain,  whose  profession  it  is  to  ignore  love,  the  world,  and 
life,  capable  of  understanding  antecedents  so  complicated, 
situations  so  diverse?  How  much  less  the  nuns,  who  are 
employed  as  superintendents.  Madame  Mallet,  who  recom- 
mends them,  acknowledges  that  they  understand  nothing  of 
it — that  they  hate  the  convicts,  having  no  idea  of  the  cir- 
cumstances that  brought  them  there,  nor  of  the  temptations 
pf  poverty. 

member   of  a    corporation  is,  by  that   very  fact, 


252        Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women. 

moulded  in  certain  general  forms,  in  which  he  possesses  infi- 
nitely less  of  that  special  and  individual  character  which  is 
everything  in  the  medicine  of  souls. 

A  man,  even  a  layman,  with  our  uniformity  of  education, 
is  much  less  fitted  for  this  duty  than  a  woman.  I  mean  a 
woman  of  the  world,  who  has  age  and  experience,  who  has 
seen  and  felt  much,  who  knows  life,  who  has  more  than  one 
heart  at  her  finger  ends,  who  is  acquainted  with  a  thousand 
delicate  secrets  that  men  would  never  imagine.  "Do  you 
believe,  then,  that  you  could  find  many  ladies  devoted 
and  courageous  enough  to  visit  these  sad  placets  often,  and 
come  face  to  face  with  these  unhappy  creatures  ?  Un- 
doubtedly, it  is  a  grand  thing  to  feel  that  one  is  doing  good ; 
but  the  strength  to  persevere  is  also  very  necessary."  I 
dare  say  that  this  necessary  strength  will  be  found,  not  in  the 
heart  only,  but  in  the  mind.  To  an  elevated,  pure,  enlightened 
woman,  who  has  reached  the  age  when  she  may  command, 
it  is  a  marvellously  instructive  study,  and  in  the  highest 
degree  affecting,  to  read  in  this  living  book.  Lay  aside  your 
dramas  and  your  theatricals — the  great  play  is  here.  Reserve 
your  interest  and  your  tears — all  fiction  palls  in  the  pre- 
sence of  such  realities ;  so  tragic,  alas !  so  delicate  also,  are 
the  destinies  of  these  women.  Will  it  not  be  a  true  happi- 
ness for  you,  madam,  to  gently  unravel  these  tangled  skeins 
that  I  put  into  your  hands,  and  if  it  be  possible,  with  your 
skill  to  take  up  these  poor  broken  threads  and  bind  them 
together  again  ?  O,  madam,  the  angels  would  envy  you. 

Angel  of  goodness,  pardon  me  for  speaking  to  you  on  a 
most  sad,  harrowing,  and  terrible  subject.  But  all  is  purified 
in  the  fire  of  charity,  with  which  your  heart  is  aglow.  There 
can  be  no  reformation  in  prisons  if  means  cannot  be  founa 
to  restore  the  state  of  nature  there,  and  put  an  end  to  that 
execrable  tyranny  of  the  strong  over  the  weak,  who  are 
beaten  and  made  sport  of. 

All  the  world  knows  it,  but  no  one  likes  to   say  it.    A 


Consolation  for  Imprisoned  Women.        253 

man  of  sad  memories  (of  great  political  faults,  but  he  had  a 
heart),  the  man  best  acquainted  with  prisons,  when  we  were 
friends,  more  than  once  explained  to  me,  with  blushes  and 
tears,  that  mystery  of  Tartarus — those  bottomless  pits  of 
despair. 

The  effects  are  different ;  the  man  falls  so  low  that  a  little 
child  can  make  him  tremble,  the  woman  becomes  a  fury. 

It  is  not  by  walls  and  dungeon-bars  that  we  should  put  an 
end  to  that.  There  would  be  instead  only  the  shameful  sui- 
cide, the  cripple,  and  the  idiot.  What  is  necessary  is  air  and 
labor — fatiguing  labor.  And  for  the  married  prisoner,  it  is 
necessary  to  restore  what  no  one  has  a  right  to  take  away 
from  him — marriage.  I  submit  to  the  lawyers,  my  illustrious 
colleagues  of  the  Academy  of  Moral  Sciences,  the  following 
question  :  "  Does  the  law,  in  committing  this  man  to  prison, 
in  suppressing  the  civil  effects  of  his  marriage,  mean  to  con- 
demn him  to  celibacy  ?"  As  for  me,  I  do  not  believe  it. 

Many  of  these  unfortunate  people  cling  tenaciously  to  their 
families,  and  continue  to  make  honorable  sacrifices  for  them. 
I  saw,  at  Mont-Saint-Michael,  a  convict,  a  very  skilful  hatter, 
who,  in  the  depths  of  his  prison,  by  depriving  himself  of 
everything,  worked  to  maintain  his  wife,  and  waited  patiently 
for  the  time  when  he  should  be  re-united  to  her. 

The  Catholic  Church  believes  marriage  to  be  indissoluble  ; 
then  its  rights  should  be  permanent.  Why  has  she  not  expos- 
tulated here,  in  the  name  of  religion,  of  morality,  and  pity  ? 

The  thing  has  practical  difficulties,  I  know.  A  wise  consi- 
deration is  necessary ;  we  should  not  indiscreetly  introduce  to 
the  prisoner  a  perverse  husband,  who  might  exercise  an  evil 
influence  upon  her. 

An  administration  burdened  with  so  many  generalities  can- 
not easily  enter  into  the  minute  information  which  this  would 
demand,  such  as  seeking  at  a  distance  for  information,  and  keep- 
ing  up,  for  one  woman,  a  delicate  and  disagreeable  corres- 
pondence. It  is  here  that  the  services  of  a  woman  of  kind  heart 


254  The  Healing  Art  in  Woman. 

and  approved  virtues  are  necessary.  If  the  prisoner  is  in  a  great 
city,  or  not  too  far  off,  she  should  procure  work  for  her  husband 
there,  so  that  the  prisoner  may  have  the  pleasure  of  his  visits 
on  such  days  of  the  month  as  the  intelligent  superintendent 
may  indicate.  Woman  is  love  itself.  Give  that  back  to  her, 
and  you  may  make  her  all  you  wish.  They  are  worth  the  trou- 
ble ;  they  retain  a  great  elasticity,  are  sometimes  exalted  and 
very  capricious  in  their  loving,  but  never  cast  down  like  men, 
nor  ignobly  pusillanimous.  She  who  should  bestow  on  this 
weak  flock  one  ray  of  happiness,  would  be  so  beloved  and 
adored  that  she  could  lead  them  at  her  will.  Madame  Mallet 
understands  this  well ;  it  is  her  great  means  of  discipline  and 
regeneration.  She  advises  that  it  should  be  employed — and 
that  the  husband  should  be  admitted  to  the  prisoner.  But  she 
imposes  upon  the  privilege  so  many  fetters  and  restrictions,  that? 
to  see  him  thus  would  be,  perhaps,  to  suffer  still  more.  If  bestow- 
ed at  all,  it  should  not  be  grudgingly.  Surveillance,  if  there  is 
any,  should  not  be  exercised  by  officials,  mockers,  who  would 
be  all  eyes  and  ears  for  their  raptures,  and  whose  very  faces 
would  freeze  them.  It  should  be  left  to  the  sagacious  goodness 
of  a  reliable  and  respected  lady,  who  will  take  everything 
upon  herself,  whose  indulgent  virtue  will  guard  her  poor  hu- 
miliated sister  in  her  supreme  consolation,  and  who  should  be 
responsible  only  to  God. 


V. 

THE  HEALING  ART  IN  WOMAN. 

EVERYBODY  knows  that  my  good  and  learned  friend,  Dr. 
Lortet,  of  Lyons,  has  the  most  bountiful  heart  in  the  world,  in 
its  benevolent  devotion.  His  mother  was  his  inspirer.  Such 


The  Healing  Art  in  Woman.  255 

as  he  is  she  made  him.     This  lady  is  a  legend  of  science  and 
charity. 

The  father  of  Madame  Lortet,  Richard,  a  manufacturer  ol 
Lyons,  a  grenadier,  and  nothing  else,  took  it  into  his  head, 
while  in  his  regiment,  to  learn  mathematics,  and  soon  after- 
ward gave  lessons  to  his  officers  and  others  ;  and  when  he  re- 
turned to  Lyons  and  married,  he  bestowed  on  his  daughter  a 
similar  education.  She  commenced  exactly  like  Froebel's  ba- 
bies, with  a  study  in  which  children  delight,  geometry ;  arithme- 
tic, on  the  contrary,  fatigues  them  extremely.  She  became  the 
wife  of  a  manufacturer,  leading  an  active  life  of  trade. 
During  the  civil  convulsions  of  Lyons,  she  risked  her  own  safety 
for  both  sides,  saving  sometimes  royalists,  sometimes  jacobins, 
intrepidly  forcing  the  doors  of  the  authorities,  and  extorting 
pardons  from  them.  The  terrible  exhaustion  that  followed 
these  agitations  is  well  known.  Towards  1800,  it  seemed  as  ft 
the  world  was  coming  to  an  end.  Seuancour  wrote  his  des- 
perate book,  Jj *  Amour,  and  Granville  the  Dernier  Homme. 
Madame  Lortet  herself,  notwithstanding  her  indomitable 
courage,  sank  amid  the  universal  ruin.  A  nervous  malady 
took  possession  of  her,  and  seemed  incurable.  She  was  then 
thirty  years  old.  The  learned  Gilibert,  whom  she  consulted, 
said  :  "  Nothing  is  the  matter  with  you.  To-morrow,  go  with 
your  child  to  the  gates  of  Lyons,  and  collect  me  such  and 
such  plants."  She  could  scarcely  walk  ;  but  she  obeyed.  Next 
day  he  sent  her  to  collect  other  plants,  a  quarter  of  a  league 
further ;  and  every  day  he  increased  the  distance — till  in  less 
than  a  year  the  invalid  had  become  a  botanist,  and,  with  her 
child  of  twelve  years,  walked  her  eight  leagues  a  day. 

She  learned  Latin,  in  order  to  read  botanical  works  and 
teach  her  son.  For  him,  also,  she  studied  chemistry,  astro- 
nomy, and  medicine.  Having  thus  prepared  him  for  the 
medical  profession,  she  sent  him  to  study  in  Paris  and  in 
Germany,  and  she  was  well  repaid.  With  the  same  impulse 
the  mother  and  son,  during  all  the  fighting  at  Lyons,  nursed, 


256  The  Healing  Art  in  Woman. 

concealed,  and  served  the  wounded  of  both  sides.  In  all 
things  she  was  associated  with  the  adventurous  generosity 
of  the  young  doctor.  If  she  had  lived  with  him  in  the  centre 
of  a  great  medical  community,  she  would  have  pursued  the 
study  of  medicine,  and  confined  herself  less  to  botany.  Now, 
she  was  the  herbalist  of  the  poor ;  she  would  then  have  been 
their  physician. 

I  have  been  reminded  of  all  this  by  what  I  have  now  under 
my  own  observation.  I  am  writing  in  a  very  beautiful  place 
on  the  banks  of  the  Gironde.  Neither  here  nor  in  the  neigh-' 
boring  villages  is  there  a  physician ;  but  they  are  all  gathered 
in  a  small  town,  by  no  means  central,  where  they  have  almost 
nothing  to  do.  Before  one  can  be  obtained,  and  his  expensive 
journey  paid  for,  the  poor  patient  dies.  In  many  cases  the 
disease,  if  attacked  in  time,  would  have  been  but  a  trifle — a 
fever,  which  a  little  quinine  would  have  arrested — a  croup, 
which,  cauterized  at  once,  would  have  disappeared ;  but  they 
are  very  slow,  and  the  child  dies.  Where  is  Madame  Lortet  ? 

An  American  lady,  with  an  income  of  a  thousand  livres — rich, 
too,  in  heart,  and  general  information,  and  who,  moreover, 
had  the  delicate  mind  and  timid  reserve  of  English  modesty — 
resolved,  notwithstanding,  to  give  her  daughter  a  medical 
education.  In  that  land  of  action  and  immigration,  where 
circumstances  often  carry  one  very  far  from  the  great  civilized 
centres,  suppose  her  daughter  should  marry  a  manufacturer, 
established  on  one  of  the  western  rivers ;  the  thousand  opera- 
tives, the  thousands  of  laborers  engaged  in  clearing  the  land, 
should  be  provided  with  medical  aid  on  the  spot,  and  not  be 
suffered  to  die  while  waiting  for  a  doctor,  who,  perhaps,  would 
be  a  hundred  leagues  off.  In  those  very  severe  winters,  no 
aid  is  to  be  expected ;  and  how  much  less  in  other  countries, 
Russia  for  example,  where  the  muddy  grounds  of  spring  and 
autumn  interrupt  all  communication  for  at  least  six  months. 

In  the  United  States,  lectures  on  anatomy  are  attended  by 
both  sexes  indiscriminately.  If  prejudice  debars  them  from 


The  Healing  Art  in  Woman.  257 

dissection,  they  have  a  substitute  in  the  admirable  models  of 
Auzoux.  He  told  me  that  he  made  as  many  of  these  for  the 
United  States  as  for  all  the  rest  of  the  world  together. 

Supposing  the  knowledge  equal,  who  is  the  best  physician  ? 
The  one  who  loves  most.  This  beautiful  saying  of  a  great 
teacher  would  lead  us  to  infer  that  woman  is  the  true  physi- 
cian. So  she  is,  in  all  barbarous  nations;  there  it  is  the 
woman  who  knows  and  applies  the  secret  virtues  of  simples. 
So  has  she  been  in  other  nations  not  barbarous,  but  of  high 
civilization — in  Persia,  for  instance,  the  guardian  of  all  the 
sciences,  and  mother  of  the  magi. 

In  fact,  man,  much  less  sympathetic,  as  a  result  of  his  phi- 
losophic and  generalizing  culture,  so  easily  consoled  himself, 
inspires  the  sick  with  much  less  confidence  than  a  woman. 

She  is  more  easily  touched,  but,  the  misfortune  is,  too 
easily — she  is  liable  to  be  gravely  affected,  to  contract  a 
nervous  malady  from  the  suffering  she  beholds,  and  become 
ill  herself.  Then  there  are  those  cruel,  bloody,  shocking  acci- 
dents, which,  at  times,  it  would  be  dangerous  for  a  woman  to 
look  upon.  So  we  must  relinquish  the  pleasing  prospect. 
Although  woman  certainly  brings  a  consoling,  healing  power 
into  the  world,  she  is  no  physician. 

But  how  useful  would  she  be  as  an  auxiliary.  How  much 
would  her  intuition,  as  to  a  thousand  delicate  things,  take  the 
place  of  man's  education.  In  him,  instruction  develops  more 
than  one  faculty,  but  in  her  it  smothers  many.  This  is  espe- 
cially noticeable  in  the  diseases  of  women.  To  penetrate 
their  elusive  secret,  that  mysterious  Proteus,  one  must  be  the 
woman  herself,  or  love  her  dearly. 

The  priest  of  medicine  requires  gifts  so  various,  and  even 
so  opposed,  that  to  exercise  them  successfully,  he  must  be 
double,  or  rather,  complete- — a  man-woman — the  wife  asso- 
ciated with  the  husband,  like  Madame  Pouchet,  or  Madame 
Hahnemann — or  the  mother  associated  with  the  son,  like 
Madame  Lortet.  I  can  conceive  also  that  a  widow  lady  of 


258  The  Healing  Art  in  Woman. 

advanced  age  might  practise  medicine  with  an  adopted  soa 
whom  she  herself  has  formed. 

Will  our  physicians,  incontestably  the  first  men  in  France, 
the  most  enlightened,  be  willing  that  an  ignorant  person,  whom 
they  themselves  have  instructed  and  taught  to  think,  should 
say  what  one  has  in  his  heart  ?  As  to  that,  here  is  the  true 
aspect  of  the  case.  To  the  physician  belong  two  offices,  not 
sufficiently  considered.  1st.  Confession — the  art  of  drawing 
from  the  patient  those  disclosures  of  antecedent  circumstances 
which  throw  light  on  the  physical  crisis.  2d.  Moral  intui- 
tion— to  complete  such  confessions,  to  see  beyond  them,  and 
force  the  patient  to  deliver  up  the  tiny  kernel,  often  impercep- 
tible, which  is  at  the  very  bottom  of  the  trouble,  and  which, 
as  long  as  it  remains  there,  will,  in  spite  of  all  the  most 
successful  remedies,  continually  produce  relapse. 

0  how  much  better  could  a  woman,  a  good  woman,  not  too 
young,  but  with  a  young,  emotional,  and  tender  heart  (who  has 
tact  and  patience  even  in  her  pity)  perform  this  office.     Man 
is  naturally  stern.    He  must  coldly,  gravely  observe,  and  decide 
from  the  physical  appearances  and  the  little  the  patient  may 
choose  to  say.     But  if  the  wife  of  the  doctor  were  there,  if 
she  could  remain  near  the  invalid,  how  much  more  would  she 
discover !      How  much   more  would  her   compassion  elicit, 
especially  from  another  woman !    Sometimes  a  few  tears  would 
suffice  to  melt  the  ice  and  get  at  all  the  story. 

1  had  for  a  neighbor  at  Paris,  a  collier,  about  thirty  years 
of  age,  who  had  an  estate  in  Auvergne,  and  a  stall  here,  which 
was  quite  profitable.     In  his  own  country  he  had  married  a 
pretty  Auvergne  woman,  rather  short,  but  handsome,  whose 
countenance,  clouded   at  times,  her   flaming  eyes  in   a  mo- 
ment rendered  the  more  brilliant.    She  was  good  enough,  but 
she  knew  that  she  was  much  noticed,  and  was  not  displeased. 
They  dwelt  in  a  dirty,  narrow,  dark,  and  unwholesome  street. 
Sometimes  the  collier,  young  and  strong  as  he  was,  had  spells 
of  fever ;  and  these  became  more  frequent,  till  he  grew  pale 


The  Healing  Art  in  Woman.  259 

and  ill.  A  good  physician,  whom  they  called  in,  explained  to 
them  that  the  dampness  of  their  lodgings  had  caused  the  fever, 
and  that  the  fogs  of  Paris  were  not  good  for  a  man  who  had 
so  long  breathed  the  bracing  fresh  air  of  Cantal.  He  told 
them,  also,  that  he  could  easily  break  up  the  fever  then,  but 
that  it  would  soon  make  its  appearance  again  if  the  patient 
did  not  return  to  the  country.  To  this  the  collier  said  no- 
thing ;  and  his  fever  increased. 

A  lady  neighbor,  whom  the  collier's  wife  served  with  coal, 
saw  that,  behind  the  judicious  observation  of  the  doctor,  there 
was  yet  something  else.  And  so  she  said,  "  My  little  friend, 
don't  you  know  why  your  husband  has  this  fever,  and  why  it 
will  stick  to  him,  and  he  will  have  it  more  and  more  ?  It  is 
because  your  pretty  eyes  are  too  fond  of  being  looked  into. 
And  don't  you  know  why  the  fever  has  been  increasing  for 
some  days  ?  Because  of  his  struggle  between  love  and  ava- 
rice. He  is  afraid  he  will  earn  too  little  down  there ;  so  he 
will  stay  here  and  die." 

Neither  the  man  nor  his  wife  would  have  taken  a  decided 
step  in  the  matter  ;  but  the  lady  did  take  one.  She  apprised  his 
relations  of  the  true  state  of  the  case,  and  they  wrote  to  the 
collier,  that  his  property  was  in  bad  hands,  that  it  was  being 
frittered  away,  that  while  he  thought  himself  thriving  in 
Paris  he  was  going  to  ruin  in  Auvergne.  This  woke  the  man 
up  and  settled  the  matter.  His  fever  left  him,  he  'gave  up  hig 
little  stall,  took  his  little  wife,  and  departed.  Both  were 
saved. 

To  save  others  is  to  save  one's  self;  it  is  a  great  comfort  to 
a  wounded  heart  to  be  healed  by  healing.  The  woman  who 
has  a  great  sorrow,  sharp  troubles,  and  heavy  losses,  seldom 
knows  what  wondrous  pharmacy,  if  I  may  use  the  word,  is 
in  them,  for  the  evils  and  the  pangs  of  others.  A  poor  mother 
has  lost  a  child,  and  a  lady  goes  to  her  and  weeps.  The 
mother  scarcely  dares  to  cry  any  more — perhaps  the  lady  has 
lost  all  of  hers,  and  is  left  utterly  alone  ;  while  she,  for  all  this 


260  The  Healing  Art  in  Woman. 

trouble,  has  still  the  happiness  to  see  around  her  a  beautiful 
family.  She  has  her  husband;  she  has  the  consolations  of  his 
love,  revived,  re-animated  by  this  very  loss.  So  she  compares 
herself  with  the  lady,  and  says :  "  I  have  still  a  great  deal 
left." 

We  are  advancing  towards  a  better  time,  a  time  more  in- 
telligent, more  humane.  This  very  year  the  Academy  of 
Medicine  has  discussed  a  most  important  question — the  reno- 
vation of  hospitals.  They  would  do  away  with  those  lugu- 
brious structures,  reservoirs  of  disease,  impregnated  with  the 
miasmas  of  so  many  generations,  where  sickness  and  death  are 
aggravated  and  multiplied  tenfold,  by  terrible  obstructions ; 
they  would  attend  the  poor  patient  at  his  own  house — an  im- 
mense advantage  for  him,  for  there  they  become  acquainted 
with  him,  and  see  him  in  his  needs,  #mid  the  surroundings 
which  cause  his  disease,  and  renew  it  as  soon  as*  he  returns 
from  the  hospital.  Finally,  for  those  rarer  cases,  in  which  it 
is  necessary  to  remove  the  patient,  they  would  erect  small 
hospitals  around  the  city,  where  the  sick  person,  no  longer 
swallowed  up  and  lost  in  a  crowcj,  would  be  regarded  in  a 
different  light — would  become  a  man  again,  and  no  longer  be 
a  number. 

I  never  enter  without  terror  those  old  and  gloomy  con- 
vents, which  to  this  day  serve  for  hospitals.  The  admirable 
cleanness. of  the  beds,  the  floors,  the  ceilings,  is  useless.  It  is 
the  walls  I  fear  ;  for  there  is  the  spirit  of  the  dead,  the  trace 
of  so  many  departed  generations.  Do  you  think  it  is  for 
nothing  that  so  many  dying  people  have  fixed  on  the  same 
spots  their  melancholy  eyes  and  their  last  earthly  thoughts,  as 
though  they  saw  some  imperious  beckoner  there,  to  whom,  in 
the  words  of  the  Roman  gladiator,  they  said,  "Ave,  Caesar! 
Morituri  te  salutant !" 

Small,  healthy  hospitals,  outside  of  the  city,  surrounded  by 
gardens,  would  be  a  humane  reform — and,  first  of  all,  for  wo- 
men. Crowds  of  women  are  carried  off  by  contagious  fevera 


The  Healing  Art  in  Woman.  261 

during  confinement,  because  woman  is  much  more  liable  to 
contagions  than  man.  She  is  more  imaginative,  more  quickly 
affected  by  the  thought  of  being  there,  lost  in  an  ocean  of 
disease,  among  the  dying  and  the  dead ;  that  alone  is  enough 
to  kill  her.  Her  relatives,  if  she  has  any,  can  visit  her  but 
twice  a  week.  The  sisters  are  occupied  with  their  professional 
duties,  and  rather  worn  out  besides  with  seeing  so  much 
misery.  The  house-surgeon  is  but  a  young  man — but  that  is 
well;  precisely  because  he  is  young  and  not  yet  hardened, 
can  he,  if  he  is  good,  effect  the  most,  morally.  And  what  an 
immense  amount  of  instruction  may  he  draw  from  it  all!  what 
ennoblings  of  the  heart! 

Dr.  L.,  then  a  young  surgeon  in  a  Paris  hospital,  saw  a  girl 
of  twenty,  in  the  last  stage  of  consumption,  come  into  the  hall. 
'No  woman  friend  had*  she,  nor  relations.  In  her  absolute 
loneliness,  amid  that  dismal  crowd,  in  the  shadow  of  her  ap- 
proaching end,  she  surely  saw,  without  a  word  from  him  to 
her,  a  gleam  of  compassion  in  his  eyes — and  thenceforth  she 
always  watched  him,  going  and  coming  through  the  hall,  and 
never  again  thought  herself  quite  alone.  And  so,  \vith  this 
pure  and  solitary  sympathy,  she  gently  departed.  One  day 
as  he  was  passing,  she  made  a  sign.  u  What  do  you  wish  ?" 
he  said.  "  Your  hand," — and  then  she  died.  That  pressure 
of  the  hand  was  not  for  nothing;  it  wras  the  token  of  a  passing 
soul,  and  a  tarrying  soul  profited  by  it.  Even  before  I  knew  of 
this  circumstance,  in  looking  on  this  man,  as  charming  as  he  is 
skilful,  I  have  felt  that  he  was  one  of  those  whom  woman  has 
endowed,  and  who  find  treasures  of  healing  in  the  tenderness 
of  their  hearts.  The  best  man  is  still  a  man,  and  a  woman 
cannot  tell  him  everything.  There  are  times  especially  when 
the  patient,  doubly  ill,  is  vulnerable  to  everything — weak, 
easily  affected,  and  yet  not  daring  to  speak.  She  is  ashamed, 
then  she  is  afraid ;  she  weeps,  she  dreams ;  not  even  to  the 
sister  of  charity,  the  official  sister,  can  she  tell  all ;  a  sworn 
celibate,  she  could  not  understand,  and  has  no  time  to  listen. 


262  The  Simples. 

No,  she  needs  a  g@od  woman,  a  true  woman,  who  knows  all 
about  it,  who  feels  it  all,  who  can  make  her  tell  all — who  will 
cheer  her  up,  and  say  to  her,  "  Don't  fret,  I  will  go  see  your 
children,  I  will  find  you  work ;  you  shall  not  want  hereafter." 
Such  a  woman,  as  delicate  and  penetrating  as  she  is  good, 
would  also  guess  what  she  would  not  dare  to  tell,  that  having 
just  seen  her  neighbor  die,  she  is  afraid  of  death.  "  Never 
fear,  you  shall  not  die,  my  dear ;  we  will  save  you."  And  a 
thousand  other  simple,  tender  things  out  of  a  mother's  heart. 
The  sick  woman  is  like  a  child ;  you  must  talk  to  her  as  to 
a  child,  and  caress  and  soothe  her ;  a  woman's  caress,  her  tender 
embrace,  has  often  a  marvellous  power.  And  if  the  lady  has 
influence,  authority,  acknowledged  intellectual  ascendency, 
from  that  position  her  benevolence  is  so  much  the  more  effi- 
cient. The  invalid  is  very  happy  in  her  bed,  quickly  recovers 
strength  and  courage,  and  gets  well,  to  please  her. 


VI. 

THE    SIMPLES. 

THE  good  often  die  in  solitude,  and  those  who  would  console 
are  not  always  consoled.  Their  sweetness,  their  resignation, 
their  harmony,  preserve  them  longer  than  they  desire.  Too 
often  does  the  pure  woman  who  has  lived  only  to  do  good,  and 
who  should  be  surrounded  and  supported  when  her  own  hour 
comes,  behold  then  all  friendships  and  relationships  depart, 
and  find  herself  left  to  approach  the  solemn  bourne  alone. 

But  she  needs  no  support ;  and  by  herself  she  goes.  She 
has  110  thought  but  to  obey  God ;  she  knows  that  she  is  in 
good  hands,  and  so  she  hopes  and  trusts.  All  that  she  still 
has  of  tender  and  holy  aspiration,  all  that  she  has  dreamed 


The  Simples.  263 

of,  longed  for  in  vain,  for  the  happiness  of  others  t  all  that  she 
has  planned  but  failed  to  execute — in  these  is  tl.e  promise  of 
the  future,  through  these  the  entrance  to  the  other  world. 

The  eloquent  words  of  pious  men,  concerning  this  solemn 
time  (the  Migrations  of  Reynaud,  and  the  Consolations  of 
Dumesnil),  sustain  her  and  give  her  hope.  In  that  book  of 
metamorphoses  (The  Insect),  has  she  not  read:  "  How  many 
things  are  in  me  which  have  never  been  developed ! — another 
and  a  better  soul,  perhaps,  which  has  not  strength  to  rise. 
Why  are  not  these  upward  soarers,  these  powerful  wings,  that 
I  have  sometimes  felt,  stirred  in  life  and  action?  These 
delayed  germs  remain  in  me,  too  late  for  this  life,  but  in  time 
no  doubt  for  another." 

A  Scotchman  (Ferguson)  has  made  this  ingenious,  but 
striking  and  truthful  observation : — "  If  the  embryo,  captive 
in  its  mother's  womb,  could  reason,  it  would  say :  '  I  am  pro- 
vided with  organs,  but  they  serve  me  not  here — with  legs, 
but  I  cannot  walk — with  teeth,  but  I  cannot  eat ;  but  patience! 
for  they  speak,  and  tell  me  that  nature  calls  me  out  of  my 
present  life.  A  time  will  come,  when  I  shall  always  live,  and 
this  machinery  be  busy.  Now  it  rests,  it  waits — for  I  am  but 
the  chrysalis  of  man.' " 

Of  these  prophetic  senses,  the  one  which  aspires  most, 
hesitates  least,  and  resolutely  promises  everything,  is  love. 
"On. this  globe,  love  is  the  true  motive  for  being;  sc  long  as 
one  loves,  he  cannot  die."  (Grainville.)  Such  is  earth,  and 
such  man.  How  can  he  come  to  an  end,  when  he  has  within 
him  so  profound  a  reason  for  duration?  Why,  enriched  by 
tenderness,  by  charity,  by  every  sympathy,  would  he  have 
amassed  this  treasure  of  vitality,  if  so  many  vibrating  cords 
were  to  be  broken  at  last  ? 

And  so  she  has  no  fear  of  God ;  but  advances  peacefully 
toward*  Him,  wishing  only  what  He  wishes,  but  sure  of  the 
life  to  come,  and  saying  :  "  Lord,  I  still  love  thee." 

Such  is  the  faith  of  the  heart ;  but  it  does  not  prevent  the 


264  The  Simples. 

feebleness  of  age  and  sex  from  operating  occasionally  to  pro- 
duce melancholy  hours.  At  such  times  she  goes  out  to  sec 
her  flowers ;  and  she  talks  to  them,  because  she  trusts  them. 
Her  thoughts  grow  calmer  in  such  discreet  society,  for  they 
are  not  inquisitive — they  smile,  but  they  are  silent.  At  least 
they  speak  so  low,  these  flowers,  that  we  can  hardly  hear 
them.  They  are  earth's  silent  children. 

As  she  fondles  them,  she  says  :  "  My  dumb  darlings,  in  mCj 
who  have  so  much  to  say  to  you,  you  may  have  perfect  con- 
fidence. If  you  brood  over  some  mystery  of  the  future, 
speak !  I  will  not  tell." 

And  one  of  the  wisest  of  them,  some  old  sibyl  of  the  Gauls 
(vervain  or  heather,  no  matter  which),  replies  :  "Thou  lovest 
us;  and  we,  too,  love  thee,  and  wait  on  thee.  We  are 
thy  future,  thy  immortality  here  below.  Thy  spotless 
life,  thy  pure  breath,  thy  sacred  person,  shall  return  to  us. 
And  when  the  superior  part  of  thee,  set  free,  shall  spread  its 
wings,  the  gift  of  our  friend  will  remain  to  us :  thy  precious 
and  hallowed  remains,  widowed  of  thee,  shall  flourish  again 
in  us." 

No  vain  poetry  is  this,  but  literal  truth.  Our  physical 
death  is  but  a  return  to  vegetable  life.  There  is  but  little  of 
solid  matter  in  this  changing  envelope ;  most  of  it  is  fluid 
and  evaporates.  Thus  exhaled,  in  a  little  while  we  are 
eagerly  appropriated  by  the  greedy  absorption  of  herbs  and 
leaves.  The  various  world  of  verdure  by  which  we  are  sur- 
rounded, is  the  mouth  and  the  absorbing  lungs  of  nature, 
which  has  continual  need  of  us,  and  finds  her  renewal  in  our 
physical  dissolution.  She  lies  in  wait,  and  is  eager.  She 
does  not  let  that  escape  which  is  so  necessary  to  her ;  she 
attracts  it  by  her  love,  transmutes.it  by  her  desire,  and  blesses 
it  with  happy  processes  of  appropriation.  She  inhales  us  in 
the  sprout,  and  exhales  us  in  the  blossom.  For  the  body  as 
ivrell  as  for  the  soul,  to  die  is  but  to  live  again.  There  is 
nothing  but  life  in  this  world. 


The  Simples.  265 

A  barbarous  ignorance  has  made  death  a  spectre.  The 
loathing,  the  terrors  of  the  grave  should  disappear.  Man, 
who  made  the  tomb,  is  afraid  of  it.  Nature  makes  nothing 
of  the  sort.  Why  do  you  talk  to  me  of  shadows,  of  outer 
darkness,  and  the  cold  bosom  of  earth  ?  Thank  God  I 
can  smile  at  that.  There  is  nothing  there  to  detain  me ;  I 
shall  hardly  leave  my  trace  in  it.  Go  on,  then,  and  pile  up 
stone,  marble,  and  brass ;  you  cannot  hold  me.  Even  while 
you  weep,  and  look  for  me  below,  I  am  already  a  shrub,  a 
tree,  a  flower,  a  child  of  light — and  have  uprisen  to  the  dawn. 

Antiquity,  so  far-seeing,  so  enlightened,  so  advanced  by  a 
kind  gleam  from  God,  expressed  this  simple  mystery  by  ap- 
propriate images :  Daphne  became  a  laurel,  and  was  not  the 
less  beautiful  for  it ;  Narcissus,  melted  in  tears,  remains  the 
charm  of  fountains.  This  is  poetry,  but  it  is  no  deceit.  La- 
voisier might  have  said  it ;  Berzelius  could  not  have  put  it 
better. 

Science !  science !  sweet  consoler  of  the  world,  and  true 
mother  of  content,  thou  hast  been  called  cold,  indifferent,  un- 
sympathetic for  the  Moral ;  but  what  repose  was  there  for 
the  heart  in  the  night  of  ignorance,  thick  with  chimeras  and 
monsters  ?  There  is  no  joy  but  in  the  True,  the  light  from 
God. 

The  toughest  of  animal  remains,  those  which  most  obsti- 
nately preserve  their  forms,  even  shells,  yield  at  last,  and 
dissolving  into  dust  and  atoms,  enter  upon  the  vegetable  life. 

Even  now  I  have  an  example  of  this  under  my  eyes.  In 
the  very  place  where  I  am  writing,  at  that  port  of  France 
where  the  ocean  and  the  great  Gironde  meet  in  a  combat  of 
love,  that  everlasting  wrestle  that  continually  unites  them, 
the  torn  rocks  give  up  to  the  waves  their  old  stony  race,  and 
become  sand.  Then  a  hundred  vigorous  plants  fix  their  roots 
in  this  sand,  to  appropriate  it  to  themselves,  and  take  strength 
from  it ;  and  they  become  so  wildly  fragrant  that  the  traveller 
on  the  road,  the  sailor  in  his  bark,  inhale  the  odor  and  are 

12 


266  The  Simples. 

delighted,  and  the  very  sea  is  intoxicated.  What,  then,  are 
these  potent  plants?  The  least,  the  most  humble  of  our 
Gallic  simples — rosemary,  sage,  mint,  wild  thyme  in  abundance 
— and  so  many,  so  very  many  immortelles,  that  whether  they 
live  or  die  is  neither  here  nor  there.  Old  Gaul  hoped  and 
believed.  The  first  word  she  ever  wrote  was  "Hope,"  on  an 
antique  medal ;  the  second,  in  the  great  book  which  inaugurates 
the  Renaissance:  "Here  lies  Hope!" 

May  not  you  and  I,  then,  find  it  in  the  tomb  ? 

But  the  good,  sweet  woman  who  is  left  alone,  who,  without 
fault  of  her  own,  has  been  betrayed  by  fate,  where  shall  she 
find  Hope  ? 

Here,  among  these  sands,  on  this  poor  but  perfumed  land, 
which  indeed  is  not  even  land,  but  only  sea  sand  that  once 
lived  ;  no  earth  at  all — nothing  but  life. 

The  poor  little  soul  of  all  these  marine  lives  becomes  a 
flower,  and  is  exhaled  in  odors. 

In  bright,  sunny  places,  screened  by  oaks  from  the  north 
wind,  very  late  in  the  season  she  breathes  again  in  the  fra- 
grance and  life-giving  virtues  of  simples.  Their  wholesome 
perfumes,  sharp  but  agreeable,  do  not  cloy  the  heart  as  those 
of  the  south  do.  These,  our  spirits,  are  true  souls,  per- 
sistent beings,  which  convey  to  the  brain  the  desire  of  life. 
The  phantasmagoria  of  tropical  plants,  their  ephemeral  qua- 
lities, inspire  us  with  languor.  It  is  only  here  in  the  north 
that  a  virtuous  vegetation  counsels  us  to  create  in  our  works 
new  reasons  for  existing.  And  not  to  exist  alone,  but  to 
continue  in  natural  groups — groups  of  souls — loving  and 
beloved,  acting  out  together  a  composite  immortality,  wherein 
many  are  united. 

Though  separately  feeble,  they  combine  and  live  by  force 
of  love. 

Medicine  may  laugh  at  our  simples.  Yet,  though  they 
act  but  slightly  on  constitutions  hardened  by  "  heroic  "  reme- 
dies, and  burnt  by  "  heroic "  alimentation,  they  are  enough 


The  Simples.  267 

for  sober  people,  for  women  of  gentle  manners,  regular  habits, 
and  healthy  organs — women  sensible  and  pure  in  spite  of  the 
times.  Let  woman  then  in  her  innocence  trustfully  store 
them.  It  is  a  feminine  grace  to  gather  and  preserve  these 
treasures  of  France. 

On  stony  hills  well  sheltered,  in  the  early  morning,  sho 
shares  with  the  bee  the  rosemary — whose  blue  flowers  flavor 
the  honey  of  Narbonne — to  distil  from  it  that  celestial  spirit 
which  soothes  the  most  distracted  brain.  Early  in*  autumn 
she  gathers  berries  from  the  bushes,  in  company  with  the 
bird,  beseeching  him  not  to  devour  all,  but  leave  her  a  part. 
From  these  she  prepares  those  useful  conserves,  which  we  too 
easily  forget. 

Gentle  cares  are  these,  which  prolong  life  and  render  it  de- 
lightful. If  the  humbler  plants  do  not  always  heal  the  body, 
they  assuage  and  fortify  the  heart,  and  smoothe  for  it  the  broad 
road  to  vegetable  existence. 

Every  morning,  all  alone,  with  the  rising  of  the  sun,  she 
offers  up  her  heart  to  God,  and  dreams  of  her  cherished  past, 
and  the  approaching  future ;  and  then  she  turns  a  kindly  eye 
upon  her  pretty  heirs,  who  are  so  soon  to  inherit  her  life ; 
for  these  touching  symbols  of  vegetable  love  are  also  those 
of  our  animal  absorption — what  we  call  death.  How  can  we 
hate  it,  fresh  and  charming  as  it  is,  and  sweeter  under  the 
turf  than  the  gentlest  sleep !  A  worn-out,  agitated  life  expe- 
riences among  this  friendly  people  the  attractions  of  profound 
peace. 

Meanwhile,  every  good  office  is  fulfilled  which  a  sister  may 
perform  or  require,  every  interchange  of  friendship  effected. 
She  waters  them  herself,  covers  and  protects  them  in  winter, 
heaps  up  around  them  the  fallen  leaves  and  flowers,  which  at 
the  same  time  shelter  and  nourish  them,  and  tabes  what  is 
her  own  from  them  only  with  thanks.  If,  with  her  still 
beautiful  hand,  she  gathers  fruit  from  peach  or  cherry  tree, 
she  smiling  says:  "Lend  this  to  your  sister;  with  all  her 
heart,  when  her  turn  comes,  she  will  restore  it  to  you." 


268  Children— Light— The  Future. 

VII. 

CHILDREN LIGHT THE    FUTURE. 

OUR  cradle  impressions  are  omnipotent  on  our  death-beds. 
Light,  that  universal  mother,  by  whom  the  child  was  warmly 
caressed  at  its  life-waking,  who  received  it  before  its  own 
mother,  who  even  revealed  its  mother  to  it,  in  the  first  inter- 
change of  glances — light  warms  and  blesses  its  decline,  Avith 
the  mildness  of  this  life's  twilight,  and  the  dawn  of  the  future 
life. 

We  have  the  future,  the  vita  nuova  in  advance,  in  the  society 
of  children.  They  are  already  the  angels,  the  pure  souls  we 
hope  to  see.  Life  is  so  active  in  these  moving  flowers,  these 
eager  birds,  so  indefatigable  in  their  sport,  that  a  sort  oi 
youth  seems  to  emanate  from  them.  The  most  afflicted  heart, 
one  that  broods  most  over  the  lost  treasures  of  its  memory, 
and  cherishes  its  wounds,  is,  in  spite  of  itself,  refreshed  and 
renewed  by  them.  Won  from  itself  by  their  innocent  gaiety, 
it  exclaims,  astonished :  "  Is  it  possible  that  I  had  forgotten 
all  this  ?» 

It  would  seem  that  God  permits  the  misfortune  of  orphan- 
age, expressly  for  the  consolation  of  childless  women.  True, 
they  love  all  children,  but  much  more  those  whose  affec- 
tions a  mother  does  not  engross.  The  unexpectedness,  the 
lucky  chance,  of  this  late  maternity,  the  exclusive  possession 
of  a  young  heart,  happy  to  recline  on  the  bosom  of  a  loving 
woman,  is  to  them  a  felicity  more  intense  than  any  other 
happiness  in  nature.  To  the  joy  of  being  a  mother  after  all, 
is  added  something  ardent,  like  the  raptures  of  the  last  love. 

Nothing  approaches  nearer  to  infancy,  or  loves  it  more,  than 
that  second  infancy,  full  of  experience  and  reflection,  which 
we  call  old  age,  and  which  by  its  wisdom  best  understands 
the  voice  of  the  young  age.  By  a  natural  inclination,  children 


Children — Light — The  Future.  269 

and  aged  persons  are  drawn  toward  each  other — these  charmed 
by  the  spectacle  of  innocence,  those  attracted  by  the  indul- 
gence they  are  sure  to  find.  And  herein  is  one  of  the  most 

beautiful  of  earth's  harmonies.     To  realize  it,  I  should  wish 

indeed  it  is  my  dream — that  orphans  might  no  longer  be  col- 
lected in  great  establishments,  but  distributed  in  small  houses 
in  the  country,  each  under  the  moral  direction  of  a  lady  who 
would  find  her  true  happiness  in  her  office.  The  studies,  the 
sewing,  and  the  husbandry  (I  mean  a  little  gardening  for  the 
family,  as  the  Enfants  of  Rouen  do),  should  be  conducted  by 
a  young  schoolmistress,  assisted  by  her  husband.  But  the 
religious  and  moral  part  of  the  education,  its  freer  part,  read- 
ing for  amusement  and  instruction,  recreations  and  walks, 
should  be  the  business  of  the  lady.  For  children,  especially 
for  girls,  there  must  be  certain  indulgences,  a  certain  elasticity, 
and  everything  cannot  be  provided  for.  The  mistress,  repre- 
senting as  she  does  absolute  order,  would  hardly  be  the  best 
judge  of  these.  There  should  be  by  her  side  the  children's 
friend,  who  would  never  decide  without  the  mistress,  but 
would  obtain  from  her  such  concessions,  such  reasonable  in- 
dulgences as  nature  might  seem  to  require.  A  woman  of  tact 
would  thus  leave  to  her  upon  whom  devolved  all  the  care  and 
all  the  trouble,  the  honors  of  government ;  but  at  the  same 
time  making  herself  beloved  by  her,  and  rendering  good 
offices  to  the  whole  household,  she  would  exert  a  quiet  influ- 
ence, would  control  without  appearing  to  do  so,  and  at  length 
form  the  mistress  herself,  and  set  her  own  moral  seal  upon 
her. 

Never  called  upon  to  punish — on  the  contrary  interfering 
only  to  soften  the  severities  of  discipline — this  lady  would  win 
the  complete  confidence  of  the  little  ones.  They  would  be 
happy  to  open  their  little  hearts  to  her,  concealing  from  her 
none  of  their  troubles,  none  of  their  faults  even — so  thafc  she 
could  advise  them.  To  know  is  everything.  As  soon  as  we 
know,  and  see  to  the  bottom  of  the  difficulty,  we  may,  by 


270  Children — Light — The  Future. 

modifying  habits  a  little,  render  punishment  superfluous,  and 
induce  the  child  to  reform  himself.  He  will  do  so  by  choice — 
especially  if  he  wishes  to  please  and  be  loved. 

There  are,  in  such  a  house,  a  hundred  delicate  matters 
which  the  mistress  cannot  attend  to,  which  require  the  exer- 
cise of  goodness,  patience,  and  ingenious  tenderness.  Ima- 
gine a  child  of  four  years  old  brought  to  such  a  place.  In  its 
distraction  of  grief,  the  imaginary  fears  with  which  its  for- 
lornness  fills  it,  it  will  be  a  wonder  if  it  lives.  It  must  have 
some  one  to  envelop  it  with  kindness  and  caresses,  and  gra- 
dually calm  it  with  quiet  diversions,  until  the  stricken  flower, 
torn  from  its  parent  stem,  shall  thrive  on  another  by  a  kind 
of  graft.  This  is  difficult,  and  is  never  effected  by  general 
rules.  I  saw  one  of  these  poor  desolates  who  died  in  a  great 
establishment  at  Paris.  The  kind  sisters  had  put  some  toys 
on  his  bed,  but  he  would  not  touch  them.  He  wanted  a 
woman  to  hold  him  in  her  arms,  kiss  him,  mingle  her  heart 
with  his,  and  take  him  back  again  into  the  maternal  bosom. 

When  they  live  and  grow,  then  comes  another  danger — a 
kind  of  hardening.  All  who  feel  deserted,  and  know  that 
their  friends  have  been  cruel  to  them,  enter  upon  life  by  the 
iron  gate  of  war,  and  are  prone  to  regard  society  as  their 
enemy.  Other  children  fling  in  their  faces  the  odious  "  bas- 
tard ;"  and  they  are  soured,  embittered,  filled  with  hate  for 
their  comrades  and  all  human  nature.  Thus  are  they  on  the 
high  road  to  crime,  and  in  a  fair  way  to  deserve  the  scorn 
that  at  first  was  so  unjust.  Such  is  misanthropy  at  ten.  If 
the  child  is  a  girl,  the  scorn  of  any  one  is  enough  to  make 
her  self-abandoned,  reckless,  and  ripe  for  evil.  Oh !  for  a  good 
heart  to  care  for  her  young  soul,  to  make  her  feel  by  tender- 
ness all  the  good  there  still  is  in  her,  to  show  her  that  in  spite 
of  her  misfortune  the  world  is  still  her  friend,  to  teach  her 
to  r«pect  herself  and  honor  those  who  love  her. 

There  comes  a  time,  a  peculiarly  critical  time,  when  collec- 
tive kindnesses  are  entirely  inadequate,  and  personal  affection  is 


Children — Light — The  Future.  271 

necessary.  Imagine  the  poor  child  subjected  to  the  unfriendly 
formalities  of  a  common  table,  the  great  crowded  dormitories, 
those  dreary  galleries  wherein  a  chilling  cleanliness  is  the 
only  idea  of  health:  subject  to  harsh  rules,  rising  early  to 
be  washed  in  the  cold,  shivering,  trembling,  yet  afraid  to 
speak,  ashamed  of  her  own  suffering,  and  weeping,  she  knows 
not  why.  Where,  at  this  moment,  are  the  dear  old  family  com- 
forts, a  mother's  heart  melting  in  sweet  caresses,  in  excesses 
of  attention,  in  a  thousand  useful  and  useless  cares — all 
around  the  little  one  an  atmosphere  of  warmth,  eager  solici- 
tudes, and  anxious  oversight  ?  But  for  mother  and  family,  the 
orphan  has  only  the  hospital,  with  its  great  grim  walls  and  its 
grimmer  officials,  who,  according  to  rule,  distribute  their  ser- 
vices indifferently,  fond  of  no  one,  and  cold  to  all.  It  is  not 
easy,  especially  in  those  establishments  in  which  order  is  every- 
thing, to  be  kind  without  appearing  unjust  and  partial.  Now 
nature  demands  strict  personality  in  kindness,  that  ardor  of 
tenderness  and  warmth  of  love  with  which  a  mother  clasps 
her  child  to  her  bosom.  How  necessary  then,  that  there 
should  at  least  be  one  friend,  some  conscientious,  tender, 
intelligent  woman,  to  supply,  however  imperfectly,  what  the 
poor  thing  needs  so  much. 

And  this  need  is  the  more  serious  because,  just  at  this  time, 
that  only  mother  to  the  orphan,  the  Law,  is  going  to  desert 
her.  The  State  has  done  its  duty,  and  now  the  hospital  is 
about  to  exclude  the  child  from  its  cold  shelter  and  bar  its 
doors  against  her.  She  must  go  forth  into  the  unknown, 
the  vast  mysterious  World,  which  to  her  ignorance  seems  a 
frightful  chaos. 

And  where  will  you  put  her  ?  In  a  farmer's  family  ?  In 
some  respects  that  would  be  well ;  but  those  rude  peasants, 
who  are  doing  their  best  to  exterminate  themselves,  will 
treat  her  as  they  treat  each  other,  and  kill  her  oif  with  labor. 
She  is  but  poorly  prepared  for  so  terrible  a  life,  wavering  as 
she  still  is  in  her  crisis  of  transition.  But  there  are  greater 


272  Children — Light — The  Future. 

dangers  than  this  for  her  ;  if,  for  instance,  she  is  drawn  into 
some  great  industrial  vortex,  if  her  lot  is  to  confront  the  cor- 
ruption of  cities,  that  pitiless  world  wherein  every  woman  is 
fair  game.  A  girl  without  relatives  is  so  little  respected !  Even 
the  head  of  the  family  to  which  she  hasbeen  entrusted,  will  often 
abuse  his  authority ;  the  man  will  make  sport  of  her,  the 
women  will  drive  her  in,  the  "young  gentleman"  will  run  her 
down ;  and  so  behold  her  taken.  Otherwise  she  will  find  her- 
self engaged  in  an  implacable  war — a  very  hell — while  outside, 
there  is  another  hunt,  of  passers-by  and  all,  and  (worst  of  all) 
of  friends,  who  attract,  console,  caress,  only  to  betray  her. 

I  do  not  know  on  the  face  of  the  earth  anything  more 
pitiful  than  this  poor  bird,  without  a  nest,  without  a  refuge — 
this  innocent  young  flower,  ignorant  of  all  things,  incapable 
of  protecting  itself — this  poor  little  woman  (for  she  is  one 
already),  abandoned  to  chance,  just  at  the  critical  moment 
when  nature  endows  her  with  a  charm  and  a  peril. 

Behold  her,  alone,  on  the  threshold  of  the  hospital  which 
she  has  never  passed  before,  and  which  now  she  steps  over 
trembling,  her  little  bundle  in  her  hand;  already  tall  and 
pretty,  and,  alas !  so  much  the  more  exposed,  she  goes — 
whither  ?  God  only  knows. 

No,  she  shall  not  go  !  The  good  fairy  who  serves  her  for  a 
godmother  shall  save  her.  If  our  orphan,  having  led  a  half 
rural  life,  can  support  herself,  partly  by  the  needle,  partly  by 
gardening,  it  will  cost  the  establishment  but  little  to  keep  for 
a  while  a  skilful,  industrious  young  girl ;  who  can  maintain 
herself.  And  meantime  her  protectors  will  cultivate  her,  and 
complete  in  her  that  sort  of  education  which  will  render  her 
a  desirable  wife  for  some  worthy  laborer,  manufacturer,  mer- 
chant, or  farmer,  who  will  find  his  true  safety  in  taking 
from  such  a  house,  and  from  such  worthy  hands,  a  girl  care- 
fully fitted  for  a  life  of  toil.  Never  having  had  fireside  or 
family,  she  will  so  much  the  more  delight  in  her  home, 
and,*  even  in  the  humblest  circumstances,  will  be  altogether 


Children — Light — The  Future.  273 

happy,  a  hundred  times  gayer  and  more  charming  than  the 
young  lady  who  always  thinks  she  is  conferring  a  favor,  and 
is  never  satisfied.  At  present,  our  good  farmers  are  at  a  loss 
to  find  wives  in  their  own  class,  or  if  they  do  find  them  they 
are  ruined ;  for  their  women  look  higher — to  marry  a  black 
coat  or  a  clerkship  (that  is  gone  to-morrow).  They  have 
not  the  simple,  energetic  habits,  nor  the  intelligence,  that 
the  noble  life  of  agriculture  requires.  But  our  orphan, 
instructed  in  all  useful  things,  zealous  for  her  husband,  proud 
to  manage  a  large  farm-house,  would  make  the  man's  happi- 
ness and  his  fortune  also. 

If  our  good  lady  were  only  good,  she  would  simply  adopt 
the  child,  and  take  this  nice  girl  home,  to  make  a  jewel  of 
her,  that  she  herself  might  every  hour  have  a  festival  of  inno- 
cence and  gaiety  in  the  possession  of  a  daughter  who  adored 
her,  and  who,  under  her  hands,  would  become  an  elegant 
young  lady. 

But  she  is  wary  of  that ;  she  chooses  rather  to  deny  her- 
self, and  not  force  the  child  into  a  condition  where  marriage 
would  be  difficult.  Let  her  but  put  on  a  hat  some  day,  and 
all  would  be  lost.  So  she  leaves  her  to  her  cap,  or  better 
still,  her  own  pretty  hair ;  she  leaves  her  half  peasant,  with 
all  the  possibilities  of  reading  and  music,  as  we  see  in  Switzer- 
land and  Germany.  And  thus  the  future  is  rendered  easy  to 
her ;  midway  of  all,  she  may  easily  rise,  or  descend,  if  it  be 
necessary. 

To  see  what  has  not  yet  come  to  pass,  is  a  gift  of  advanced 
age,  of  a  various  experience  and  a  pure  life.  Now  the  admi- 
rable and  delightful  woman  of  whom  this  book  is  a  biography, 
is  clearly  impressed  with  the  approaching  future  of  European 
societies.  Great  and  profound  renewals  there  are  to  be. 
Women  and  families  will  necessarily  be  surrounded  by  new- 
circumstances.  Will  the  rudimentary  woman  of  "  L'  Amour," 
or  the  cultivated  lady  of  "  La  Femme,"  suffice  ?  By  no  means. 
The  latter,  herself,  clearly  perceives  that  the  wife  of  the  com- 

12* 


274  Children— Light— The  Future. 

ing  man  must  be  more  complete  and  stronger,  harmonized 
with  him  in  thought  and  action ;  and  such  she  would  have 
her  orphan  be.  Her  prudent  effort,  is  to  render  this  beloved 
child  different  from  herself,  and  ready  for  a  better  state  of 
things,  for  a  society  more  masculine  by  labor  and  equality. 

And  what  then  ?  is  this  but  a  dream  of  hers  ?  in  the  reali- 
ties around  us  we  note  already  the  forecast  shadow,  the  imper- 
fect unage,  of  the  coming  beauty. 

In  the  "Backwoods"  of  the  west,  on  the  very  confines  of  a 
savage  world,  the  American  woman — wife  or  widow — who 
works  and  tills  the  ground  all  day,  in  the  evening  none  the 
less  reads,  none  the  less  explains  the  Bible  to  her  children. 

Once  passing  into  Switzerland,  over  the  dreariest  of  fron- 
tiers, the  fir  forests  of  Jura,  I  was  surprised  to  see  in  the  fields 
the  daughters  of  watchmakers,  beautiful  and  well-bred  girls, 
well-informed,  and  quite  ladies,  working  in  velvet  bodices,  at 
hay-making.  Nothing  could  be  more  charming.  By  that  amia- 
ble alliance  of  art  and  agriculture,  the  earth  seemed  to  flourish 
under  their  delicate  hands,  and  evidently  the  flowers  were 
proud  to  be  handled  by  a  clever  person. 

But  what  impressed  me  most,  and  made  me  fancy  for  a 
moment  that  I  was  already  "  assisting  "  at  the  next  century, 
was  a  meeting  I  had,  on  Lake  Lucerne,  with  a  wealthy  family 
of  Alsatian  peasants.  The  picture  was  in  no  respect  unworthy 
of  the  sublime  frame  in  which  I  had  the  happiness  to  see  it.  The 
father,  mother,  and  young  daughter  wore,  witfi  proud  simpli- 
city, the  ancient  but  beautiful  costume  of  their  country.  The 
parents  were  true  Alsatians,  of  stout  hearts,  fair  talents,  and 
wise  heads,  square  and  solid;  the  daughter  much  more 
French,  refined  at  Lorraine,  her  iron  changed  to  steel.  De- 
cidedly young,  she  was  slender,  active,  and  full  of  vitality ; 
with  a  slight  figure  and  yellow  arms,  astonishingly  strong ; 
but  they  were  very  brown.  Her  father  said:  "That  is  be- 
cause she  will  work  in  the  fields ;  she  lives  in  the  fields,  labors 
there,  and  reads  there. 


Children — Light — The  Future.  275 

"  The  oxen  know  her  well  and  love  her.  When  she  is  tired, 
she  mounts  one,  and  they  draw  all  the  better  for  that.  But 
that  does  not  hinder  the  little  one  from  reading  Goethe  or 
Lamartine  to  me  in  the  evening,  or  playing  Weber  or  Mozart 
for  me."  I  wish  our  lady-patroness  of  orphans  had  seen 
that  charming  realization  of  her  own  ideal.  It  is  doubtless 
towards  an  analogous  or  identical  type  that  the  world  to  come 
will  tend. 

To  form  such  a  treasure,  to  realize  in  her  that  vision  of  a 
pure  and  vigorous  life,  with  its  fruitful  equalities  and  noble 
simplicities,  which  shall  free  man,  and  prompt  him  to  produce 
works  of  liberty  in  the  name  of  love,  is  a  great  religious 
act.  For  so  long  as  our  women  take  no  part  in  labor  and 
action,  we  are  serfs  and  can  do  nothing. 

Give  that  vision  to  the  world,  Madam.  Let  it  be  your  che- 
rished thought,  the  worthy  occupation  of  your  declining  years. 
Put  into  it  all  the  graces  of  your  heart,  your  matured  wisdom, 
your  strong  and  noble  will.  Should  you  serve  God  by  doing 
so  much  good  in  the  land,  with  what  confidence  could  yon 
return  unto  Him ! 


I  picture  to  myself  this  beloved  lady,  on  a  beautiful  winter 
day,  when  the  weather  is  mild  ;  she  has  had  an  attack  of  fever, 
and  is  still  weak,  but  convalescent,  and  wishes  to  go  down 
and  sit  in  the  garden.  Supported  by  the  arm  of  her  dear 
adopted  daughter,  she  is  going  to  see  her  little  ones  play 
again,  her  children  whom  she  has  not  seen  for  a  week.  As 
she  approaches  their  sports  cease,  and  her  darlings  encircle 
her.  She  looks  upon  them,  but  sees  them  only  confusedly ; 
still  she  fondles  them,  and  kisses  those  of  four  or  five  years 
old.  Is  she  in  pain?  Not  at  all;  but  her  sight  is  failing. 
She  wishes  most  of  all  to  see  the  fading  light,  which  *is 
etill  reflected  from  her  silver  hair.  She  gazes  in  vain,  in 


276  Children — Light — The  Future. 

vain — dimmer  and  dimmer.  A  kind  of  twilight  has  tinted  her 
pale  cheeks,  and  her  hands  are  joined.  Then  her  little  ones  speak 
very  low :  "  Oh  !  how  she  has  changed !  And  how  young  and 
beautiful  she  is !"  A  youthful  smile  has  indeed  ppssed  over 
her  lips,  as  though  she  communed  with  an  invisible  spirit. 

For  her  own  spirit,  emancipated  by  God,  has  taken  its  free 
flight,  and  soared  upwards  into  light. 


NOTES. 


NOTES  . 
NOTE  i. 

THE  MORAL  CHARACTER  OF  THIS  WORK. 
[See  Translator's  Preface.] 

NOTE  2. 
EDUCATION,  CHILDREN'S  WORKSHOPS  AND  GARDENS. 

The  true  exponents  of  the  Middle  Ages  were  Speech  and  Imitation ; 
those  of  the  present  age,  Action  and  Creation.  What  education  ia 
suited  to  a  creative  age  ?  That  which  teaches  how  to  create.  It  is 
not  sufficient  to  appeal  to  the  inspiration  of  the  moment  (as  according 
to  Rousseau,  Pestalozzi,  Jacotot,  Fourier,  Coignet,  and  Issaurat),  but 
we  must  assist  the  mind  to  discover  the  rail  on  which  it  may  dash  for- 
ward. The  genius  of  Froebel  has  effected  this.  When  in  last  January 
his  amiable  follower,  "Madame  de  Marenholz,  explained  his  system  to 
me,  I  saw  at  once  that  it  was  the  education  for  the  times,  the  only  true 
method.  Rousseau,  with  his  system,  creates  a  Robinson  Crusoe,  a  her- 
mit ;  Fourier  has  recourse  to  the  apish  instinct,  and  makes  the  child  a 
mere  imitator;  Jacotot  developes  the  specialty  of  speech  and  argu- 
ment. But  Froebel  puts  an  end  to  all  this  nonsense,  by  proscribing 
imitation ;  his  system  of  education  is  neither  external  nor  imposed, 
but  evolved  from  the  child  itself;  nor  is  it  arbitrary.  Thus  history  has 
a  new  beginning  in  the  child,  in  the  creative  activity  of  the  human  race. 
Read  the  charming  Manual  of  Madame  de  Marenholz — not  to  follow  it 
servilely,  but  to  derive  suggestions  from  it.  And  see  the  Paris  School, 
under  the  direction  of  Madame  Kcechlin. 


280  Notes. 

NOTE  3. 
JUSTICE  IN  LOVE,  AND  THE  HUSBAND'S  DUTY. 

In  this  age,  apparently  a  cold  one,  love  has  nevertheless  revealed 
itself  under  countless  new  aspects  of  passion.  Never  before  has  it 
spoken  in  such  mighty  tones ;  never  has  it  so  longed  for  the  infinite. 
She  was  living  only  yesterday — she  who  wrote  such  burning  measures 
— she,  the  muse  of  eternal  love,  with  its  tempests  and  its  tears,  Madame 
Valmore. 

The  striking  feature  of  our  time  is,  that  love  now  suffers  and  weeps 
for  a  profound  and  absolute  possession,  which  hitherto  was  neither 
desired  nor  thought  of.  To  this  demand  Science  replies  with  her  sa- 
cred revelation :  "  You  long  for  perfect  unity ;  and  you  have  it  already, 
in  that  absolute  interchange  of  lives,  that  transmutation  of  beings  which 
constitutes  marriage."  But  is  love  satisfied  with  this  ?  No,  not  yet : 
the  ordained  oneness  of  the  flesh  is  a  sacrilege  if  there  be  not  with  it 
a  free  union  of  hearts. 

And  in  order  that  this  may  exist,  lovers  should  create  in  themselves, 
by  life-long  study,  a  common  basis  of  ideas,  and  a  language  which  will 
incite  them  continually  to  communicate  with  each  other.  The  silent 
tongue  of  love,  its  communion,  must  again  assume  its  sacred  function, 
which,  ignoring  all  selfish  pleasure,  implies  the  alliance  of  two  wills. 

The  casuist,  without  heart  or  soul,  has  made  no  stipulation  on  behalf 
of  the  woman.  But  to-day  it  is  the  man  himself,  who  in  magnanimous 
justice  must  plead  her  cause — even,  if  necessary,  against  himself;  for 
she  has  a  right  to  three  things : — 

1st.  She  should  never  be  impregnated  without  her  unqualified  assent. 
It  is  for  her  to  say  whether  or  not  she  is  strong  enough  to  accept  that 
chance  of  death.  If  she  is  ill,-  feeble,  or  badly  formed,  her  husband 
should  spare  her — especially  at  the  time  when  the  ovum  is  exposed 
(during  menstruation  and  the  ten  days  following).  Is  the  intermediate 
period  sterile  ?  It  certainly  ought  to  be,  since  the  ovum  is  wanting ; 
but  passion  may  cause  its  reappearance.  M.  Coste  thinks  it  is  in  this 
condition  for  at  least  three  days  previous  to  menstruation,  which  is  also 
the  opinion  advanced  in  the  Memoir  approved  by  the  Academy  of 
Sciences. 

2d.  The  husband  owes  his  wife  enough  of  the  etiquette  of  love  not 


Notes.  281 

to  make  her  a  passive  minister  to  his  pleasure ;  there  should  be  none 
for  him  unless  shared  by  her.  A  Catholic  physician  of  Lyons,  a  regu- 
lar professor,  gives  it  as  his  deliberate  opinion,  in  a  popular  work  pub- 
lished this  year,  that  the  scourge  which  decimates  women  originates 
chiefly  in  the  fact,  that  the  greater  part  of  them,  though  married,  are  in 
reality  widows.  Solitary  in  pleasure  itself,  the  selfish  impatience  of 
the  man,  desiring  only  self-gratification,  and  that  for  a  single  instant, 
arouses  her  emotions  only  to  disappoint.  To  excite,  but  always  in 
vain,  is  to  provoke  disease,  irritate  the  body,  _and  desiccate  the  soul. 
The  wife  submits  to  it ;  but  she  becomes  melancholy  and  sarcastic,  and 
her  bitterness  affects  her  blood.  With  the  exception  of  occasional 
business  talk,  there  is  no  conversation  between  them;  at  heart,  no  mar- 
riage. For  marriage  exists  only  through  the  sustained  study  of  the 
heart's  duties,  in  the  interchange  of  those  salutary  raptures  which  re- 
new life.  If  this  be  wanting,  the  espoused  pair  become  estranged,  and 
ill  at  ease  with  each  other ;  the  children  of  such  a  marriage  are  to  be 
pitied,  for  the  family  is  dissolved.  Does  the  man  pretend  to  be  satisfied 
with  the  brief  pleasure  he  takes  by  force  from  ice  and  marble?  He 
derives  from  it  only  wretchedness,  for  though  practically  a  materialist, 
his  mind  has  all  the  requirements  of  a  far-advanced  age,  which  demands 
in  everything  the  very  depths  of  the  profound ;  in  a  word,  he  would 
penetrate  even  to  the  soul. 

3d.  Another  physician,  himself  an  excellent  husband,  said  to  me: 
a  The  best  thing  in  your  work  (L1  Amour)  is  what  everybody  has 
laughed  at — that  portion  about  the  half-maternal  duties  of  love,  those 
willing  offices  which  suppress-the  dressing-maid.  That  tiresome  and  dan- 
gerous third  person  is  as  a  wall  between  husband  and  wife,  rendering 
their  relations  quite  fortuitous ;  so  that  a  man  gets  to  visiting  his  wife, 
as  if  she  were  his  kept  mistress.  The  advantage  of  marriage  is  to  be 
able  to  be  together  at  all  times,  and  consequently  at  those  rare  mo- 
ments when  your  wife — like  all  women,  somewhat  cold — may  be  in- 
spired by  a  natural  longing.  Affection  and  gratitude  hare  much  effect 
with  women  in  this  respect.  They  are  much  more  promptly  moved 
by  him  who  understands  the  management  of  their  little  mysteries,  and 
who  tenderly  nurses  them  during  their  periods  of  weakness. 

If  you  wish  to  understand  women,  remember  how,  in  natural  his- 
tory, moulting  enfeebles,  and  destroys  life  among  animals.  Terrible  in 
the  inferior  species,  it  leaves  them  wholly  at  the  mercy  of  their  ene- 


282  Notes. 

mies.  Man,  in  whom,  fortunately,  it  is  not  violent,  changes  continu- 
ally as  to  his  skin,  and  even  his  internal  epidermis.  In  his  intestinal 
processes,  day  by  day  he  "  sheds"  part  of  himself,  and  is  enfeebled  by 
it.  Woman  loses  far  more  than  he,  having  in  addition  her  peculiar 
function  every  month.  She  has  at  such  times,  in  common  with  all 
animals  during  their  moulting  season,  a  desire  to  hide  herself,  but  also 
to  lean  upon  something.  She  is  the  Melusina  of  the  fairy  tale  :  the 
beautiful  fay,  who  on  earth  often  assumed  the  form  of  a  pretty,  timid, 
little  adder,  and  hid  herself  to  cast  her  skin.  Happy  he  who  can 
soothe  his  Melusina,  who  can  comfort  her,  and  make  himself  her  nurse. 
Who,  indeed,  can  supply  his  place  ?  It  is  profanation  to  expose  her 
beloved  person,  so  timid  about  so  innocent  a  matter,  to  the  tricks  of  a 
silly  maid,  who  would  make  a  jest  of  her.  Such  an  extreme  of  inti- 
macy should  be  granted  only  to  him  to  whom  it  can  be  a  joy  and  a 
favor — a  favor,  which  at  first  costs  her  some  pain,  but  which,  little  by 
little,  she  will  find  so  full  of  comfort,  that  she  would  on  no  account 
withdraw  it.  Nature  loves  habit ;  and  she  makes  free  use  of  the  per- 
fect liberties  of  childhood. 

Those  are  happy  moments  of  grace  and  complaisance,  and  easy  com- 
pliance, when  her  cherished  confidant  enthrals  her  with  his  harmless 
magnetism.  The  charming  humility  of  her  who  knows  so  well  that 
she  is  queen,  is  without  defence,  and  yields  without  a  struggle — in  pro- 
found forgetfulness,  abandonment  without  reserve  !  Love,  hitherto 
experienced  only  as  a  half-conscious  dream,  has  now  a  chance  to  assert 
itself  in  complete  bliss — in  that  salutary  crisis  (so  profound  with  woman) 
in  which  she  gives  up  her  very  life,  to  have  it  returned  to  her  a  thou- 
sand fold,  in  new  beauty  and  new  embellishments  according  to  the 
law  of  Nature. 


NOTE  4. 
WOMAN  IN  SOCIETY. 

What  society  ?  Past  or  future  ?  I  have  not  spoken  of  the  first, 
nor  repeated  the  history  of  the  Salons,  which  is  given  at  sufficient 
length  in  my  Louis  XIV.  There  is  much  talk  of  the  good  these  Salons 
effected,  none  of  the  good  they  prevented,  of  the  genius  they  stifled. 
Madame  Henriette  exerted  a  happy  influence  for  ten  years.  But 
Madame  de  Montespan,  by  her  viciousness,  and  Madame  de  Mainte- 


Notes.  283 

non,  by  her  negative  mediocrity,  rendered  France  barren  for  forty 
years.  The  society  of  the  future,  we  can  only  imagine.  In  the  third 
book  it  has  been  my  endeavor  simply  to  point  out  the  position  which 
the  widow  and  the  single  woman  will  occupy — that  of  an  emancipator, 
through  goodness,  of  all  enslaved  souls;  for  even  in  a  free  society 
there  will  always  be  slaves — slaves  to  poverty,  to  age,  to  prejudice,  to 
passion.  In  a  perfectly  harmonious  community,  a  great-hearted  wo- 
man would  be  the  good  genius  of  maternal  power,  interposing  in  every 
case  that  the  law  does  not  reach, — a  supplement  to  Liberty,  a  higher 
order  of  Liberty,  a  direct  interposition  of  God. 


THE   END. 


IN    COURSE    OF    PUBLICATION. 
THE  NOVELS  AND  TALES 

OF 

M.    HONORE   DE   BALZAC. 

Translated  from  the  Original  French,  by 
0.  "W.  WIGHT  (Translator  of  Cousin's  Philosophical  Works), 

AND 

FRANK  B.  GOODRICH,  ("  Dick  Tiuto.") 


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By  MRS.  LILLIE   DEVEREUX    UMSTED.     "A  spirited  an 
well  drawn  Society  novel — somewhat  intensified  but 
bold  and  cle\er."     i2mo.     Muslin,  price  $i   oo. 


LIST  OF  SC'OES 


DOESTICKS'  LETTERS. 

Being  a  compilation  of  the  Original  Letters  of  O  K.  P, 
DOESTICKS,  P.  B.  With  many  comic  tinted  illustration! 
by  John  McLenan.  I2mo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo 

PLU-RI-BUS-TAH. 

A  song  that's  by-no-author.  Not  a  parody  on  "Hia- 
watha." By  DOESTICKS.  With  150  humorous  illus- 
trations by  McLenan,  I2mo.  Muslin,  price  $100 

THE   ELEPHANT   CLUis 

An  irresistibly  droll  volume.  By  DOESTICKS,  assisted  by 
KNIGHT  Russ  OCKSIDE,  M.D.  One  of  his  best  works 
Profusely  illustrated  by  McLenan.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo, 

THE  WITCHES  OF  NEW  YORK. 

A  new  humorous  work  by  DOESTICKS  ;  being  minute, 
particular,  and  faithful  Revelations  cf  Black  Art 
Mysteries  in  Gotham.  I2mo.  Muslin,  price  $i  oo 

TWO   WAYS   TO   WEDLOCK. 

A  Novellette.  Reprinted  from  the  columns  of  Morris  & 
Willis*  Neio  York  Home  Journal,  <.nio.  Hand- 
somely bound  in  muslin.  Price  -$'  oo, 

HAMMOND'S  POLITICAL  HISTORY. 

A  History  of  Political  Parties  in  the  State  of  New  York. 
By  JABEZ  B.  HAMMOND,  L.L.D.  3  vols.,  octavo,  with  steel 
portraits  of  all  the  Governors.  Muslin.  Price,  $6  oo. 

ROMANCE   OF   A   POOR   YOUNG    MAN. 
From  the  French  of  OCTAVE  FEUILLET.     An   admirable 
and   striking   work    of  fiction.     Translated    from  the 
Seventh  Paris  edition.      I2mo.     Muslin,  price  $1   oo 


LIST  OP  BOOKS  PUBLISHED 


THE  CULPRIT  FAY. 

By  JOSEPH  RODMAN  DRAKE.  A  charming  edition  of  thii 
world-celebrated  Faery  Poem.  Printed  on  colored 
plate  paper.  Muslin,  I  zmo.  Frontispiece.  Price,  50  cts. 

THE  NEW  AND  THE  OLD ; 

Or,  California  and  India  in  Romantic  Aspects.  By  J. 
W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author  of  "  Up  and  Down  the  Irra- 
waddi."  Abundantly  illustrated.  Muslin,  I2mo.  $1,25. 

UP  AND  DOWN  THE  IRRAWADDIj 

Or,  the  Golden  Dagon.  Being  'passages  of  adventure  in 
the  Burman  Empire.  By  J.  W.  PALMER,  M.D.,  author 
of  "The  New  and  the  Old."  Illustrated.  Price,  $1,00. 

THE   HABITS   OF   GOOD   SOCIETY. 

An  interesting  handbook  for  Ladies  and  Gentlemen  ;  with 
thoughts,  hints,  and  anecdotes,  concerning  social  obser- 
vances, taste,  and  good  manners.  Muslin,  price  $1  25. 

RECOLLECTIONS  OF  THE  REVOLUTION. 

A  private  manuscript  journal  of  home  events,  kept  during 
the  American  Revolution  by  the  Daughter  of  a  Clergy- 
man. Printed  in  unique  style.  Muslin.  Price,  $l,oo 

HARTLEY  NORMAN. 

A  New  Novel.  "  Close  and  accurate  observation,  enables 
the  author  to  present  the  scenes  of  everyday  life  with 
great  spirit  and  originality."  Muslin,  I2mo.  Price,$i,25. 

MOTHER   GOOSE  FOR   GROWN   FOLKS, 

An  unique  and  attractive  little  Holiday  volume.  Printed 
on  tinted  paper,  with  frontispiece  by  Billings.  I2mo«, 
Elegantly  bound  in  fancy  colored  muslin,  price  75  cts. 


HECKMAN 

BINDERY  INC. 

FEB  96 

„,     ®  N  MANCHESTER, 

Bound -To -Pleas^    |ND|ANA  46962 


